


Homeward Bound: The (Not So) Incredible Journey

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: scavengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:08:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 100,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who’s Afraid of the D.J.D.?  Everybody, really, but especially the Scavengers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Homeward Bound: The (Not So) Incredible Journey  
 **Warning:** Most of the parts of this were written after MTMTE#8, so if the Scavengers do reappear in the series, this story will likely contradict however they get written. Other than that, beware of Decepticons being Decepticons. Not the brightest and best, but still. Decepticons.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Fulcrum, Krok, Flywheels, Misfire, Crankcase, Spinister, Grimlock  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Separated out from _Candy From Strangers_ , most of these were Halloween Candy prompts. It just finally got long enough that I’m making it a story on its own so people can read it straight through.

**[* * * * *]  
 _“Danse Macabre”_  
[* * * * *]**

They’d come from all walks of life, from strategist to combat specialist to technician. They’d held every rank in the faction: commander, subcommander, lieutenant, corporal, sergeant, and grunt. They’d been set-up and guilty, defiant and apologetic, traitors and loyalists, terrified and enraged. Some of them hadn’t even been convicted yet.

When the orders came down, what the Decepticons had been no longer mattered. The prisoners’ short futures became the focus as their pasts wiped cleanly away in a mass reformat. A thousand different mechs had been imprisoned, but only the K-Class emerged from Styx.

Cowardice didn’t mean much once he jumped -- or was pushed, really. The drop guards were sure to place him at the front of the formation. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape to. There was nowhere left to go but out and then down, pulled by gravity and fate. 

Fulcrum turned in midair, and he watched through the detachment of paralyzing fear as the Decepticons around him nosedived in a suicidal rain. They dropped amidst explosions of Autobot ordinance, dancing on the shockwaves and hot air, and everything they had once been became unrecognizable in what they transformed to become. Their pasts were unimportant; rank and personality and crimes erased by imminent death, indistinguishable at the very end.

A thousand bombs fell from the sky, in a thousand equal payloads.

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Prompt 2

**[* * * * *]  
 _”dead bodies”_  
[* * * * *]**

Expropriation specialists had some odd mannerisms. Living off the dead probably did that to a mech, but _eek._ Watching them callously evaluate the mounds of dead bodies on the battlefield for quality of parts took some getting used to. The way they systematically dissembled the few corpses with parts they wanted was, uh, more than a little creepy. They were scarily efficient at their jobs.

Also, they kept eying him sidelong as if just waiting for him to keel over so they could salvage him as well. 

Fulcrum tried to look healthy. Very healthy. K-Class tough, that was him all the way. 

Spinister picked him up apparently at random and carried him for a while, so Fulcrum suspected he didn’t look as healthy as he was trying to act. He couldn’t figure out any other reason the big rotary mech would hoist him up to tote around for an hour and half. He didn’t see him carrying anyone else around, anyway, no matter how persistently Misfire begged for a piggy-back ride. Of course, Fulcrum _had_ been mistaken for dead only hours ago. Maybe he got a pity-pass in Spinister’s slow thought processes. 

His self-repair had come out of statis-lock in hyperdrive, but it could only do so much, so fast. He probably still looked half dead. Looking half dead was kind of an improvement. Considering the fact that he still _felt_ like slag warmed over, Fulcrum had accepted the free ride without a word. It was hard enough keeping up with the unit even after his self-repair had the additional time to work.

He knew that the other Decepticons noticed him lagging. Flywheels and Crankcase held low-voiced conversations while peering over at him periodically. Yeah, that wasn’t alarming _at all_. Spinister had walked up and fingered the edge of Fulcrum’s gut wound as if evaluating it, which had left the strong-chinned ‘Con speechless long after the helicopter meandered off again. Krok just… _watched_ him. 

And then there was Misfire. The circuit speeder-hyped jet kept glancing at Fulcrum’s open wound, thumbs twitching faintly, and the K-Class mech got the distinct feeling the other Decepticon still wanted his fuel pump. There was a big hole torn most of the way down his lower torso, leaving said fuel pump on display. Part of the tearing had come from the fall, but not all of it. Fulcrum knew that. That knowledge was making him nervous. Someone had opened him up like a tin can in preparation for sucking him dry of anything useful, and that someone was currently scrounging around in a search for another, hopefully more dead victim. The longer Misfire went without someone to siphon, the more the jet’s thumbs twitched and the more often he gave Fulcrum’s exposed fuel pump that acquisitive look. 

He’d put the thing back once, but that didn’t mean he’d do it twice. _Eek._

Fulcrum tried harder to look healthy. He made sure to bend all the shredded armor back into place to help his self-repair, too, and kept his body angled away from any interested expropriation specialists who might have wandering hands and a surplus of greed. 

That was a harder task than it seemed, since this whole unit had evidently been infected by some sort of super-touchy virus. Fulcrum hadn’t been used as an armrest as many times in his entire life as he had in the last four hours. He’d have thought it was his, uh, magnetic personality if he hadn’t watched the unit be just as casually touchy amongst themselves. There were elbows to the side, poking fingers to get attention, arms wrapped around shoulders, and ludicrous as it seemed, piggy-back rides, if Misfire was to be believed. Spinister certainly didn’t seem shy about just picking up a mech. Flywheels had a thing about just leaning on whoever was closest while he talked, no matter that he’d just met this mech for the first time only hours earlier. Even Crankcase, miserably hateful as he seemed, had prodded Fulcrum a few times already. 

Krok kept clapping a hand on his shoulder to sort of push him along, and that was very strange. Superior officers didn’t _do_ handling grunt soldiers. Unless it was a punch or two to keep them in line, of course, but the violence never started. _That_ was _extremely_ strange, because Fulcrum was slowing the unit down. He knew he was. In Decepticon terms, a soldier being weak meant that the nearest officer should try to beat the weakness out of him. It was why medbays were such wretchedly horrible places to be stuck in. 

So the bomb-mech kept flinching, waiting for a punishing blow, but his new commander didn’t turn violent. He was kind of considerate of Fulcrum’s wound, actually, and kept his (frequent) handling relatively gentle. Maybe Krok was afraid he’d blow up if smacked too hard. 

This unit was weird, but anything beat the grim comradie of the K-Class training camp. Fulcrum would take the bizarre touchiness over inevitable exploding death, really. Learning what position to fall in to minimize tumbling once he’d transformed to bomb mode, versus his new CO guiding him around hands-on? Yeah. New unit, for the win.

Fulcrum tried not to fall behind, despite the fact that he felt like he’d been gutted. Which he actually kind of had, so that explained the gutted feeling. Also why he was having such a hard time keeping up with the group of weirdos ranging out over the battleground looking for…whatever their search criteria was. He should probably figure that out soon, or he’d be even more a burden on these mechs than he currently was.

After a while, he realized they weren’t so much moving forward as moving _out_. They seemed to have settled on a search pattern around him. That was a mercy. If he was roughly in the center of the group, that meant he didn’t have to go anywhere. He sat down and took a breather, letting his self-repair catch up a bit. Ohhh, he hurt. He hurt like he’d fallen out of the sky onto very hard ground. 

Uh. Okay, yeah. Exactly like that.

The train of thought to Flashback MemoryVille needed to be derailed. Like, now. Now was good. 

“What are you looking for, sir?” he called out to Krok, since the officer was the closest mech to him. If he wanted to stay with this unit, then he’d better make himself useful. Beyond letting Misfire siphon him for fuel, anyway. 

“Dead bodies,” the military strategist said as he circled around the K-Class mech. He toed the ground and studied torn-up bits of Decepticons and Autobots.

Fulcrum blinked at the blunt answer. “Uh…”

Krok gave him an amused look. “Specifically, mostly-intact ones. Charred ones probably burnt their fuel up before they guttered, and ones with major wounds probably bled their fuel out. We’re searching for dead bodies that have enough innermost energon left in them to be worth stripping down and siphoning.”

That got another blink, but suddenly the unit’s newest recruit was looking out over the mass of dead bodies with wide optics. So many dead bodies, so few of whom fit the criteria. Krok’s weary survey of the battlefield made more sense, now. “Oh. That’s…” morbid, horrible, vampiric, sickening, desperate, and, “…going to be harder than it sounds.” No wonder the group had clustered around Fulcrum when they’d found him. He’d probably been the biggest find of the day.

“I know.” And Krok really did know. He knew all the connotations of being an expropriation specialist.

He took a casual step closer to his newest subordinate while still scanning the nearest bodies. The K-Class mech was struggling back to his feet, pretending not to feel the open wound swarming with self-repair nanites under his chest plates, and Krok kept half an optic on him in case the stubborn glitch taxed himself too much. Fulcrum seemed determined to join the others in their search, however, and the strategist gave a short, approving nod for the little bomb-mech’s work ethic. The rest of the unit called out variations of _‘Nothing here!’_ as they moved on, and Krok led Fulcrum after the group. 

He had, after all, been their biggest find of the day. Krok wasn’t letting anything with worth on this planet slip through his fingers.

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Prompt 3

**[* * * * *]  
 _”Setting: In a graveyard at midnight”_  
[* * * * *]**

Death. Death, as far as the optic could see. Whatever the planet had been before it’d become Cybertron’s battleground, it wasn’t that anymore. What hadn’t been polluted beyond repair by caustic vital fluids had been sterilized by virulent chemical warfare. Flora and fauna had been scoured off the surface, leaving only the dead behind.

Morbidity aside, at least it was quiet. 

“Clemency’s plenty peaceful, isn’t it?”

Fulcrum startled, arms unfolding to make a half-aft attempt at a defensive stance that…probably wouldn’t defend him against anything much. Lousy explosive altmode or not, he just hadn’t been made for combat. He didn’t even have a _gun._ None of the K-Class had been issued weapons. If they had, they’d have likely shot their drop guards, hijacked their drop ships, and just, y’know, not dropped.

Well, maybe Torque would have still thrown himself out. That mech had been eerily enthusiastic.

He turned around out of wary reflex before recognizing the voice: Krok. His current commanding officer, if he could say that. He wasn’t sure that he could. Technically, he kind of had to follow the highest-ranked Decepticon around like any other grunt soldier. He didn’t have a rank hash-mark on his plating anymore. That was why Misfire had made sure to point out the sole living Decepticon on Clemency bearing such a mark, because the rest of the unit didn’t have it. Therefore, they fell in line behind the mech who did like good soldiers. Or like orphaned dynametal ducklings. 

It was what ‘Con grunts were trained to do. Lone grunts were either rogues, defectors, or lost. All three categories came with a high death rate attached. Better to be attached to an officer than on their own. Snipers shot for the ranking mechs first, anyway.

On the other hand, the circumstances were sort of outside the boundaries of normal rules. They weren’t exactly an official military group. Krok was scraping the bottom of the barrel in this sector for whatever was left behind after the rest of the faction had moved on. He’d cobbled together personnel and resources alike. It probably said something about how bullheaded stubborn this officer was that he’d gotten his ship and ragtag crew this far.

While Decepticons were all about might making right and laying claim on whatever they had the strength to keep, Fulcrum wasn’t sure how he felt about being claimed like leftovers nobody else wanted anymore. His prior commanders had done all the filework and formalized transfer of command through the proper channels. Krok had just sort of walked over, eyed him, and then shooed him along to join the rest of his makeshift unit like a harried and heavily-armed cyberhound herding a group of particularly dumb sheepicrons. 

Considering Spinister’s level of intelligence, that wasn’t a bad analogy. 

Actually, considering his own state of affairs, that wasn’t a bad analogy to be part of. The K-Class mech wasn’t, uh, exactly known for making the best life choices when left to his own devices. Maybe having Krok nab him for his unit of oddballs and misfits was something Fulcrum should be glad for, not hesitating over. 

So he straightened up, not really snapping to attention so much as making it clear he would if Krok wanted him to. If nothing else, the other Decepticon was both larger than him and armed. Those two things got a certain amount of respect among Decepticons no matter relative rank. 

They also insured the smaller ‘Con answered however the larger, armed mech wanted when asked a question, even if it was about something as inane as the peacefulness of a mass grave. “Yes…sir,” Fulcrum agreed, attaching the military title awkwardly. “Very, um, quiet.”

It felt weird. Krok didn’t seem to care what he was addressed by so long as it wasn’t an insult, from what Fulcrum had observed. And even that seemed to depend on tone. 

The past night and day had been full of Misfire indiscriminately calling everyone ‘pinhead’ -- although Fulcrum had known he was being addressed in conversation when ‘loser’ got tossed into the mix -- and Crankcase making a variety of disparaging noises instead of using names at all. Flywheels used everyone’s names, but he didn’t seem to know what military regulations were. He’d apparently abandoned them in favor of religion. Spinister had spent the entire day calling everyone by the wrong names, as he’d mixed up his designation files while trying to add Fulcrum’s name. The rotary mech had gotten frustrated and taken his wrath out on a convenient rock. That Flywheels had dodged behind at the last second, which was why the rock got pounded instead of the NeoPrimalist. 

All of which gave Fulcrum very little guidance when it came to how he should approach this new commander of his. He wasn’t comfortable hanging out with a superior officer who was more one of the grunts than, well, an evil sadist. The last time the technician had ‘hung out’ with an officer, he’d literally been hanging. From someone’s fist for a while, and then from a loop suspended over a vat of acid. Criminal trials on Styx weren’t pleasant affairs. 

It was safe to say that hanging out with Krok could only be an improvement. The officer’s motley unit of expropriation specialists as a whole was better in that regard than any other group of Decepticons Fulcrum had ever been in. Despite of -- or maybe because of, who knew -- the rather intimate nature of their introduction to him (one couldn’t get more personal than handling a mech’s internal systems), the unit had actually made him feel sort of welcome. Fulcrum didn’t know how to deal with that. It was…nice. 

Which was why it was weird. He wasn’t used to applying that term to socializing. ‘Endurance test,’ yes. Even ‘particularly twisted form of punishment’ had been how he’d referred to it in the past. 

‘Nice’? That was just odd.

The others were off in the distance, gathered around a fire. He could hear them from here: the subdued sound of conversation, the not-so-subdued chatter of Misfire, the occasional loud outburst of laughter. To his surprise and vague apprehension, he’d wanted to join them over there. Sit down as part of the group and ask about how the war had swung since he’d failed to explode. Maybe find out what they were laughing at. Get to know these mechs. 

They hadn’t paused since hauling him up off the ground. This was the first real break they’d taken in two days, and it’d have been pleasant to do more than talk in snatches between scanning and salvaging. 

Pleasant. Could that term even be applied to a group of Decepticons? He might have hit his head too hard when he’d fallen, if he was thinking such things. That would explain a lot since he’d woken up, actually. 

Head injury or not, he was starting to like these guys. 

He’d still wandered off a ways from the fire because he…didn’t really know how to socialize. Hence the reason he was standing out here at midnight instead of joining them. But he hadn’t been able to resign himself to sitting alone, however peaceful the dead were. Clemency was quiet, but also cold and a little spooky. 

He could use some company, but the problem was that Fulcrum didn’t have the faintest idea of how to join the group around the fire. Barge in and fit himself into the circle by force? Try to gracefully edge in and probably fall flat on his face? Did he have to be invited and did he hover on the fringes until he was, or did he just assume he was welcome? 

The indecision had left him out here, looking out over the deathscape. With Krok, now. 

Fulcrum straying from the group seemed to have activated Krok’s inner herding instinct. Latent cyberhound tendencies had sent the officer out after his lost sheepicron ‘Con, tracking him down to bring back into the fold. Krok was like a Decepti-hen, clucking worriedly after his newest adoptee. ChiKroken: _bok-bokk_ ing and broody over a nest full of weirdos.

Or maybe Krok was just paranoid about letting ‘his’ mechs disappear into the night, never to return. Coming up one short on the unit headcount had triggered him.

In any case, it seemed that Fulcrum’s social quandary was about to be solved by an overly possessive officer. The K-Class mech watched in somewhat perplexed amusement as the larger Decepticon casually walked past him to look out over the dead. That just happened to put Krok between his new acquisition and any thoughts of wandering off that said acquisition might have been entertaining. It was something that Fulcrum had gradually clued in to the officer doing throughout the day. It was some sort of strange habit. The strategist did it frequently, rather persistently, and not just to him. 

The group had been searching nonstop for a night, a whole day, and most of tonight, but Krok had personally shepherded Fulcrum around. Unless one of the others was out of sight for too long, that was. Then the officer went after the missing mech. Retrieval done at an ambling walk hadn’t looked like retrieval at all until the fourth time Krok left the bomb-mech alone, if only temporarily. That’d made him start watching the officer, trying to figure out what he was doing. 

It really had been kind of obvious once Fulcrum had known what to look for. It was the flyers who’d thrown him off at first. After a while, he noticed that if Misfire or Flywheels took off for a short flight, they were inevitably in comm. contact with their commander within a couple minutes. Spinister used his rotors more for digging than flying, it seemed, but Fulcrum didn’t doubt that the dumbaft would follow the same constant-contact pattern. He wouldn’t have put it past their officer to chase after the flyers if they didn’t. 

It was ridiculous how clingy the mech was. Krok was either the most protective or most possessive officer Fulcrum had ever had. It was odd, but he’d probably get used to it. The others must have. There hadn’t been any fussing about being kept so close throughout the course of the day, anyway. 

Until he got used it, however, Fulcrum just tried to resign himself to being corralled. Any moment, now, Krok would stop aimlessly staring out over the dead planet, turn, and just happen to crowd the smaller ‘Con slightly -- yup, like that. 

“You really want to keep staring at the grave you almost deactivated in?” the officer asked pointedly, stopping a tad bit too closer for comfort. Automatic reaction had his new subordinate taking a step back even though Fulcrum knew exactly what Krok was doing. The small retreat got another too-close step forward, relentlessly forcing the bomb-mech back toward the fire. “C’mon. Misfire siphoned enough energon for everyone to share tonight.” Hint, hint; nudge, nudge. _Bok bok bokkk._

Fulcrum sighed and let himself be chivved back toward the group by the passive-aggressive invasion of his personal space. “Yessir, Krok, sir,” he said more dryly than he’d intended, and almost winced when a hand clapped his shoulder in response. He’d…expected something different, for the disrespect. But he hadn’t been disrespectful, not by this officer’s standards.

The hint of spirit got a chuckle in response, in fact. As if Krok approved of the attitude. That was weird. Which was a term he could use without any of the iffiness he held for the others he was digging out of his lexicon to apply to the situation.

Since it was already on him, the hand gave him a subtle little push. _Shoo. Back to the herd, sheepicron._

Being claimed like this was weird, but right now? It felt more like making friends than being transferred, however unofficially. The group -- his unit, he supposed -- was laughing in the distance, lit by fire and life. He sighed and complied with Krok’s prodding. The prospect of going over to join them wasn’t bad. Might even be good. Not that he was going to go overboard with the optimism just yet, but… 

Fulcrum turned look over his shoulder, back out over the mass of dead bodies spread as far as the optics could see, and took a moment to remember that he wasn’t among them. No matter where he ended up walking _to_ , he was simply happy to walk out of the graveyard.

**  
[* * * * *]**


	4. Prompt 4

**[* * * * *]  
 _” That cold ain’t the weather, that’s death approaching.”_  
[* * * * *]**

Six mechs on a strange world, and they built a fire. 

Of course they did. It was cold, it was dark, and it was undeniably creepy. Being in the middle of an entire dead world when everything went cold and dark reminded them that their sparks were the only lights left burning on this world. Lighting a fire took some of the pressure off. It illuminated a wider area, and made them feel less like small mobile targets on Death’s radar. A fire gave them light and warmth. It beat back the fear they wouldn’t admit to. 

It gave them something to gather around. Krok kept them going, sending them out in every direction and tirelessly herding them along as one widespread unit, but it was good to close ranks for a while. They spent so much time moving in a search pattern that they spent little time face-to-face. Having something to rest by let them see each other as more than a comm. signature on the frequency. 

They’d been two nights and a day searching, by sunlight during the day and torchlight at night, and they’d just barely scrounged enough fuel to earn a rest. Misfire dispersed it with a frenetic cheer that only made Crankcase grumpier and confused Spinister. Fulcrum kind of just stared at the manic smile that accompanied the fuel, taken a bit aback as a grimy cube was shoved into his hands. Krok and Flywheels appreciated Misfire’s efforts in a weary way, however. 

The circuit speeder-hyped jet was attempting to counter the grim depressive truth of Clemency with his nonstop chatter, and he truly did make a decent diversion. Brooding over their task wasn’t going to help anyone, and he verbally flittered around the group to keep the mood up. Because the truth was that scouring a whole planet full of dead bodies was a terrible job without much hope of success. Three days of searching Clemency had turned up a dud K-Class mech and scarcely enough energon to keep themselves going. There hadn’t been enough fuel left in dead mechs’ blown-apart tanks to have let them stop earlier. The idea of finding enough to power Krok’s oddly-named ship was laughable, but only in a sick way. 

Scavenging was their best bet, but the odds were stacked against them.

Although, what choice did they have but keep searching? Krok claimed that his squadron would return if he could only get in contact with them, but he’d been claiming that since he picked up his first stray ‘Con for his _new_ squad. That tune was old and strained by now. So the Scavengers rested from their long search and prepared to search again come dawn. It was a tiring, terrible job, but they had to do it.

The unvarnished facts were that they needed fuel. They had to find fuel. That’s why they were on Clemency, and that’s why they had been reduced to scavenging in the first place. There just wasn’t any other way to survive. 

And maybe they told themselves they were testing their newest member’s mettle as well, but that was to be expected. Acceptance into a unit wasn’t as simple as just being a minor miracle of survival, after all. Stumbling along as self-repair scrambled to fill the worst holes, trying to keep up and earn his place -- that was how real Decepticons were recruited into units. Or at least that’s how the other four Scavengers were thinking of their grueling endurance-test search. Test, not desperate survival. 

They gathered around the fire and needled the K-Class mech about his condition, feigning carelessness and callous disregard, as if they’d leave him behind if he woke up late tomorrow morning. Fulcrum laughed uneasily and almost visibly set his chronometer alarm to coincide with the second the sun rose. Crankcase went _’bah’_ at him again as Flywheels and Misfire zinged coded communiqués over the frequency, quite obviously setting up trouble for tomorrow’s wake-up call. Inevitably, it would go wrong. Decepticon hazing rituals usually did, and when they involved Misfire, the probability of plan malfunction went up toward 100%. 

The morning was going to be interesting. Probably terrifyingly so for poor Fulcrum no matter if the prank went wrong _or_ right. Spinister would almost certainly shoot at anyone who tried getting up at Oh Dark Hundred, even if they explained it to him beforehand. He’d side-eyed Fulcrum enough for coming into the firelight from the darkness earlier, as if he’d forgotten the K-Class mech existed once he’d disappeared from sight. Knowing Spinister, that was entirely likely. 

Krok wasn’t about to let Fulcrum go any more than he’d let any of them get left behind, but he let the other four ‘Cons have their illusion of toughness. He’d even go along with the hazing if Misfire thought ahead enough to ask for permission and/or Spinister-wrangling help. It’d bring the unit together just that much more. That brought him a tiny glow of reassurance, personally. After all, there had to be something there to join if there was a ritual for joining it, right?

So they were six mechs on a strange world, and they huddled together in the cold, in the dark. Theirs were the only sparks on a world of empty bodies. They were reminded of that by everything around them. Clemency was nothing but destruction and death and despair surrounding them. Alone in the cold night, the Decepticons clumped together, and the heebie-jeebies still crept up behind them to whisper that they would never find enough to survive.

But the Scavengers lit a fire, and they looked inward, away from the dead of night pressing at their backs. They teased, gossiped, and plotted. When the creepiness sent shivers up their backs, they built the fire larger and laughed louder. 

More importantly, they kept _living._

**  
[* * * * *]**


	5. Prompt 5

**[* * * * *]  
 _“mask-making”_  
[* * * * *]**

Even delirious with pain and bleeding all over, Krok was apparently still the best at keeping Spinister on-track. When the group’s makeshift medic took off for the W.A.P. with Krok barely-conscious in his arms, no one protested. Well, to be honest, Fulcrum had been too startled to do more than stare after them. But neither Crankcase nor Misfire seemed concerned by entrusting the idiot surgeon with their officer, so he figured it was okay. He hoped.

That did leave him with two Decepticons who had every reason to hate his exposed chassis right now. Well, two Decepticons and one dully-staring Autobot. Grimlock probably didn’t care one way or another about him. The two Decepticons probably did. Fulcrum had saved the Scavengers by jumping, but he also had sort of caused this whole DJD mess in the first place and gotten them all on the List in the process of saving them. He hadn’t expected to survive saving them. He hadn’t spared any thought to what he could possible say about it afterward. 

Fulcrum stood there looking back at Crankcase and Misfire, and his thoughts inevitably turned to the odds. Because, yeah, two combat-frames against one K-Class-modified technician-frame? The odds weren’t good. Hiding behind Grimlock might buy him half a second more life unless he could talk his way out of this. 

What should he say? An apology would probably be a good thing, but, uh. The fact that Misfire wasn’t talking was unnerving him something fierce.  
Did they make cards for this kind of occasion? Maybe he could just take off running after Krok and send one later. 

_’Sorry for surviving!’_ made it sound like he was sorry for not exploding in the first place. Which, nope, he definitely wasn’t sorry about that. Life: Fulcrum liked it. _’Sorry for being a complete and total coward!’_ would certainly pack in a goodly amount of explanation and implied groveling, but he kind of had bitten the bullet in the end and proven himself not quite an utter wuss by suicidal sacrificing himself. For these Decepticons, right here, these ones standing here looking at him. The two mechs covered in dents and minor contusions because they were decent mechs that hadn’t deserved having the DJD brought down on their heads.

Fulcrum fidgeted under their critical optics and scrambled for words to somehow fill the pit of awkward he’d fallen into. He could only imagine how much deeper that pit would gape if he went with, _’I thought you were worth dying for.’_

Frag. This was the, what, third time he’d failed at facing up to the consequences of his actions? Was this his thing, now? Could that _be_ a thing?

“Might as well get this over with,” Crankcase muttered, unfolding his arms. Misfire made a sound like gears grinding, and his face twisted up into a strange pout. Whatever ‘this’ was -- and Fulcrum had several very unpleasant guesses -- Misfire evidently found it distasteful.

“H-hey, really, might as well not.” Fulcrum’s hands rose defensively, and his smile was wide and tinged with desperation. “I mean, why should we? ‘Over with’ is so -- so **permanent** , you know? Let’s take it easy!” Oh Primus, he was going to die. Crankcase was advancing on him, mouth set in an angry scowl, and the little bomb-mech was _so screwed._ “I’m sorry,” he tried, and it came out sincere. Because he was, and wasn’t that bizarre? He was sorry this had gotten dumped upon the Scavengers, and he was sorry Flywheels had been ground up, and he was sorry they’d all been beaten up and put on the List. He was even a tiny bit sorry that Grimlock was in such bad shape. “I’m sorry, I really am.”

“Yeah, yeah, they’re always sorry,” Misfire snarked, finally breaking out of his silence. The jet wasn’t even looking at Fulcrum. He was walking slowly away from him, in fact, head down. That just made it worse. Something unfamiliar and leaden weighted down Fulcrum’s tanks even under the greasy smear of terror slicking up his innards right now. He thought it might have been shame, or even guilt. “They’re sorry, but they do it anyway, and then -- ” The purple mech stooped suddenly and brandished a piece of metal in Fulcrum’s direction. The techie flinched. “This yours?”

“Uh…no?” Fulcrum stared dumbly as Misfire sighed and threw the metal bit down, but Crankcase had him by the shoulder before anything could really process. The cranky pilot-cum-mechanic yanked him around, surveyed his back up and down, and returned him just as roughly to facing forward. The dumb staring continued. 

Crankcase’s scowl, if anything, had deepened. “Fragging puzzle with all the pieces missing,” he growled at the shorter, slighter Decepticon. “He’s missing almost all his altmode kibble,” he snapped over at the jet. His hands continued to poke and prod the K-Class mech, experienced enough in field repair and machinery to find where plate connections were sparking out in the open. “Not that it’s not an improvement, but Spinister will fret if he has to try to manufacture that slag, and we’re already terminally low on fuel. Don’t even want to **think** about getting the W.A.P.’s micro-forge running. It probably wouldn’t work, anyway.” He took a step back and gave Fulcrum another up-and-down sweep. “What’s your self-repair system saying?”

“Hey, loser! This yours?”

Fulcrum worked his mouth uselessly. He settled for nodding to Misfire’s irritated question, and the jet chucked the armor piece in their direction before going back to searching the ground. The technician stared at him a long second, then blinking at the impatient mechanic already connecting wires in his lower torso. His self-repair system wasn’t so much saying anything as just swearing furiously at him for getting banged up _yet again_. 

“This -- no, wait, it’s still got an arm attached. He missing an arm, Crankcase? No? Then it’s not his. Frag, this is gonna take forever.”

They were…They were _repairing_ him. Field-help only, just collecting his scattered bits of armor and making sure his internals stayed inside for the walk back to the ship, but. Wow.

When he could finally get words out, he of course put his foot in his mouth. Because nothing violated an unspoken agreement not to talk about something than, well, talking about it. “You’re not mad at me?” Fulcrum asked the two Scavengers intently putting him back together again. 

Misfire pitched another piece of him on the growing pile. “Yeah,” he said shortly, because apparently silence and lack of syllables were how he expressed disapproval. “We’re mad at you.”

“You’re an idiot who nearly got us all killed,” Crankcase said. His hands pulled on the cable he was trying to knot back together until Spinister could reweave the tensile cords. Fulcrum yelped at the pain. “We’re mad. Fragging smelt-waste -- I’d shoot you in the head myself if Krok wouldn’t drag me behind the W.A.P. through re-entry!”

“Ah-heh. Oh.” His voice came out unintentionally small, thoroughly intimidated. But he didn’t know how to leave well enough alone, so he ventured another question. “Then why are you helping me at all?”

“ **I’m** doing this so I can see Spinister turn you into a travesty,” Misfire announced, pulling at a promising piece of metal trapped under Grimlock’s aft.

Fulcrum’s optics widened. “Wh-why would -- “

His question was interrupted by Crankcase shoving him around again and briskly clamping off his sparking shoulder connectors. “Medical supplies aren’t exactly coming out our audios,” was explained grudgingly to the battered K-Class mech, “so Spinister uses whatever we can scrounge up. Last planet we scavenged on, we found some sort of medical drop-ship. Everything inside was burnt to a crisp except for boxes and boxes of bandages.”

“Bandages?” Fulcrum frowned. He didn’t recognize the medical term. “What’re those?”

Both Scavengers cackled evilly. That was not reassuring in the least.

“You’ll like ‘em,” Misfire said sweetly, and Fulcrum knew he really wouldn’t. “They’re strips of repair nanite-culture farms. Meant to replenish self-repair nanites instead of medic-aided repairs, I guess, so they’re used for external, non-life threatening wounds only. No idea why the frag anyone would send boxes of them out to the front, you know?” he mused. “Thought the point was to get us grunts up and fighting again quickly, not sitting around letting our self-repair systems do the work.” 

“Repairs done slow as used oil,” Crankcase said, relishing the thought. “Unless Spinister’s dug up a case of medical supplies, he’s not going to be able to do more than reattach the worst bits and then wrap you up.”

“You’re gonna be uuuuuuug **ly** ,” Misfire crowed, throwing more of Fulcrum on the pile. “Forever, really, ‘cause just look at that face -- but uglier than usual, I mean.”

“Personally,” the mechanic now working on Fulcrum’s back put in, “I’m just fixing you up so you can schlep stuff back to the W.A.P. for us. We’re going to need to strip the P-6 for everything we can, and I want someone else to do the heavy lifting.” A firm poke took him between the shoulders, and the bomb-mech winced. “You’re manual labor for the foreseeable future, got it?”

If he had been the lowest on the totem pole before just by being the newest mech in the unit, he was now beneath the pole entirely. “Yeah,” Fulcrum agreed quietly. “Got it.” Hauling stuff around like a dock worker was hardly glorious work, but looking at the alternatives? It wasn’t a bad thing.

“This yours?”

“No.”

“You sure? I could swear this is part of a K-Class mech.” Crankcase joined Fulcrum in looking at Misfire. They looked out over the field of Decepticon corpses. Misfire blinked at their united front of unamusement. “…oh. Right. It probably is.”

“Eh, bring it along,” Crankcase decided. “Can’t hurt to have spares.”

“Often as he seems to like crashing headfirst into the ground? Yeah, probably not.”

Fulcrum didn’t miss the fact that the grouchy mech patted him on the back roughly, or that Misfire’s chatter was gradually picking back up. 

No, things weren’t bad at all. Worth almost dying to save, in fact.

**[* * * * *]  
**


	6. Prompt 6

**[* * * * *]  
 _“Scenario: A practical joke with a Halloween theme that doesn't turn out exactly as planned”_  
[* * * * *]**

“You **lost** Fulcrum?”

Funny, for a mech without a face, Krok still managed to convey raised brow ridges. Spinister actually leaned over to poke at the repair nanite-culture swathes he’d wrapped around the officer’s head to make sure they were still in place. He was almost positive the damaged officer’s optics weren’t functional yet, but mechs told him all the time that he was wrong about stuff he was positive about. Not usually related to medical things, but benefit of a doubt had him worriedly checking. Just in case. 

All the prodding got was an annoyed swat from Krok, who wasn’t about to let being blind and swaddled in bandages stop him from staring at Misfire. “You lost him. How did you **lose** Fulcrum?!”

The K-Class mech was orange, tan, and injured all over. It was camouflage that would only work on the blind. And Krok was fairly sure even _he’d_ be able to find Fulcrum, which raised the question of why the frag Misfire couldn’t.

The jet smiled nervously and shrugged in reply to the incredulous question, unsure if his commander could see him but not willing to bet either way. “Weeeell,” he drew out, fingers playing together and wings flicking. “So Crankcase had this idea, yeah? To pay Fulcrum back for bringing the fragging DJD down on us, y’know. Good idea, I thought, and real easy, ‘cause it’s not like we didn’t already have most of the parts on board.” He shrugged again, this time spreading his hands helplessly. “We kinda reassembled Flywheels with what we had, okay, and grabbed a couple dead mechs’ torsos to slap up something that looked like it’d gone one-on-one with a grinder, and then we put it in the cargo bay door hatch, and Crankcase hid behind it to do a creepy voice thing while I snuck up behind Fulcrum to scare him. You follow?” 

He didn’t pause long enough to confirm that Krok had, just plowing onward with another flick of his wings. “It looked really cool, really it did, and we were loading the last of the fuel -- **you** know, that I siphoned outta the P-6’s engine? I dunno what brought it down in the end, but it definitely sucked down most of its fuel before the crash -- anyway, so I comm’ed Crankcase to get ready and opened the hatch.”

Misfire’s wings wilted a little. Krok was already folding his arms; that slow, deliberate arm-folding that really meant the mech arranging his arms like that was doing it to keep himself from choking a glitch. The jet recognized that arm-fold. Frag, did he. He was in trouble, alright. 

“Uh…well, the W.A.P.’s lighting down there’s pretty lousy, and Crankcase does a mean Flywheels imitation. Uh, yay for the new star of the W.A.P. Talent Search! Not so yay: Fulcrum took off. With, um, an armload of energon cubes, ‘cause we were heading up to bring everyone a snack. Or a full-on ‘We Survived the DJD’ overcharge, really.” His voice sank to a shamed mumble as bandage-covered, blind optics still managed to glare at him. “He was carrying a lot.”

“Planned waste of needed fuel **aside** ,” it wasn’t often Krok whipped out the Superior Officer Voice, but he could sure crack it when he did, “explain to me why you thought it a good idea to scare someone convicted of cowardice?”

Both his Scavengers had leapt automatically to attention when that voice snapped across them, but Misfire was the one wincing like someone who expected a punch to the face. Which he kind of did. Krok hadn’t hauled off and socked any of the unit yet, but nobody had screwed up this badly before. The jet had honestly been prepared to pull the officer off Fulcrum when Spinister had dragged the little K-Class loser into the medbay for quick-fix repairs earlier, but Krok had only wearily asked a few questions pertaining to everyone’s health before ordering them back out to break the P-6 down for anything they could use. 

Right now, Misfire was just waiting for Krok to snap and lay into the first mech who got within range. He was a convenient target who’d just lost one of the unit by pulling a (hilarious) stupid prank. Misfire was expecting the Wrath of Krok to fall upon him, closely followed by the Fists and Feet of Krok. That’s what his past officers would had done. Over smaller offenses, too, like a certain purple jet talking nonstop for six hours.

“I didn’t know he’d run,” Misfire mumbled, shamefaced before his defacto unit commander. He braced for the first punch.

“He was. Convicted,” Krok said instead, pronouncing the words with excruciating exactness. “Of. Cowardice.”

The lack of hitting got a blink, and then a sheepish smile as the words sank in. “Alright, so I didn’t know he’d run that **fast**.” 

Krok’s hand came up, but only to do the universe’s most gentle face-palm against the bandages.

**[* * * * *]  
**


	7. Prompt 7

**[* * * * *]  
 _“Scenario: strange noises at 2 AM”_  
[* * * * *]**

A mech didn’t get claimed by a commander like Krok without accepting a few facts of life. 

First: if an officer was so blasted determined to find his unit that he commandeered an entire ship, fixed it up, and took off after them in it, merely running out of fuel was not going to stop that officer. He was going to find fuel, he was going to bring that fuel back to his ship, and that ship was lifting off again. No other outcome would be accepted by this officer. Saying that this officer was stubborn was like saying that the Autobots and Decepticons were having a bit of a tiff: accurate, but amazingly understated. 

Secondly, if an officer was _that loyal_ to his lost unit, there was no way in the Pit that anyone in his present unit was going to get left behind. No way, no how, not even in the Pit if it were physically possible for this officer to walk down there and get his mechs back. Lacking the ability to bring back the dead, however, this officer settled for recycling Flywheels’ useable parts into the living unit members. 

Even if an unfortunate mech was sent screaming off into the bowels of the commandeered ship by other members of the group playing a rather cruel prank on him, this officer was going to make sure he was brought back to the fold. The other Decepticons in the unit better get used to that fact, because this same officer was going to make their past commanders look like cyberhound puppies in comparison by the time he was done raking them over verbally. Primus help them if they came back without their missing unit member. 

Because third and most important: every single one of them was _his_.

For a Decepticon officer currently without a face and confined to the medbay because of unpredictable fainting spells, Krok wasn’t doing too bad. He’d managed to resume command without a hitch -- except for the small matter of Misfire and Crankcase having scared the living daylights out of Fulcrum. They’d _lost_ one of his _unit._ This was _unacceptable._

Misfire had reported to the medbay expecting a beating for screwing up, because that was the usual result of a grunt reporting that he’d screwed up. Sure, Krok was an all-around awesome CO when it came to putting up with the jet’s babbling, and frag if that wasn’t a first, but Misfire had figured he was in for it now. Cool guy or not, Krok was a _Decepticon officer_. Thinking one of _those_ would let some high spirits slide was like thinking a Sharkicon could be domesticated: ha ha, yeah _right._ Somebody was going to get chunks torn out of him. It was only a matter of time.

So the hyped-up jet been dumbfounded to get a lecture instead of a well-deserved smacking-about. The weirdest part was that it was just as effective as physical violence. Bandaged up and blind, the commander of the Scavengers still had his voice. He had a mean turn of phrase, too. Misfire usually couldn’t pay attention to lectures long enough to be affected by them, but Krok had put the fear of _words_ into his errant subordinates. 

By the time he’d gotten done dressing down the jet and pilot, their paint was feeling distinctly blistered. It’d helped that Spinister had finally clued in to Misfire and Crankcase upsetting his patient. Nothing spelled official intimidation from Decepticon Powers That Be than having a brilliant surgeon and one-mech brute squad looming behind every word spoken by Krok. _Eeeeek._

This, directly and indirectly, led to why the two pranksters were talking to the ceiling in the wee hours of the morning. Directly, because they’d just learned a very vivid lesson in the power of words. Indirectly, because somewhere up there, theoretically, Fulcrum was hiding. 

They’d exhausted every other possible hiding spot. The engine room had been empty. The maintenance closet was currently full of Flywheels parts, so the likelihood of the K-Class mech hiding there was fairly nonexistent. The armory was still locked, and a quick, reluctant query confirmed that Krok hadn’t given Fulcrum the passcode. 

That didn’t mean that the dud bomb-mech couldn’t hack the lock -- technicians were notoriously nosy little bastards when it came to data and prying into computers -- but Krok had also Spinister-proofed the armory back when the rotary mech still shot first instead of asking if he should shoot at all. Brilliant a surgeon as Spinister was, that didn’t stop him from being a complete moron. The deadbolt hidden near the floor on the outside of the door had stopped him cold for weeks. It was still habitually kept bolted because they were Decepticons: concepts like ‘overkill’ and ‘too much security’ escaped them. 

Krok took the opportunity presented when they called him about the passcode to verbally maul his two prank-happy mechs some more. They held up their arm projectors and winced at the right times when the holo-Krok on their comm.s ripped off another chunk of their pride. They deserved it, they knew, and it kept him semi-appeased to yell at them. He was currently fuming in the medbay, held back from searching on his own by Spinister tethering him to the ship’s only repair berth by the end of one bandage. Otherwise he’d have been going over the W.A.P. one bolt at a time.

Good news was that they knew the medbay was clear of skittish K-Class mechs. If Fulcrum were within audio range of Krok’s tirade, then he’d have come out by now. So that just left the rest of the ship, which Misfire and Crankcase checked off one place at a time. 

Grimlock had settled in the grunt-bunks, which wasn’t working out so well for him. The berths were made to accommodate a wide range of combat frametypes, but not a Dynobot’s. Half his legs hung off the berth’s end, and he kept turning over and making uncomfortable little noises. It was kind of funny and kind of sad at the same time. Grimlock all over, really.

“He’s going to kill us all,” Crankcase said after about a minute of watching the massive Autobot fidget and shift.

“You say that about **Spinister** ,” Misfired pointed out reasonably. 

Just as reasonable, Crankcase gave him an expectant look. “And?”

There wasn’t much the jet could say to argue that. Spinister was a warrior-medic circle of destruction. “I wonder if we can weld two of the bunks together for him?” Misfire asked instead.

“He can recharge on the floor,” Crankcase said, turning away. “Fragging braindead Autobot won’t care. We can worry about it later. Where to next?”

Next turned out to be the officers’ quarters. The captain’s room was locked, but Krok again confirmed that Fulcrum didn’t have the passcode. He also skewered them some more with sharp, pointy words about teamwork and how badly they’d failed at it. Ouch. What, was he brooding in medbay, just saving up this stuff to verbally eviscerate them with?

They resolved to make no more calls to their extremely irate commander.

The two searchers poked their heads briefly into the unlocked room, scoping out the set-up for officers. It was nice. Spacious. They stared a bit mournfully at the berths. Officers got actual padding and built-in recharge leads for deep defrag cycles. 

“We’re not getting paid enough for this gig,” Misfire muttered, his scowl for once matching his companion’s.

“We’re getting paid?” Crankcase barked a laugh with no amusement. “I thought we were only here for the glory of the Decepticons. Accepting money for our efforts would only tarnish our belief in the Cause.”

“…woo, go Decepticons.”

“Contain your enthusiasm, mech.”

“I’m trying. Trust me, I’m trying.”

Off they trudged, for the glory of the Decepticons. Or something. 

Crankcase took one look at the bridge and grunted a negative, and Misfire knew better than to question the pilot’s senses when it came to this room. The grumpy mech got territorial over the W.A.P.’s bridge. The only one the pilot would allow uncontested into his jealously-guarded domain was the captain of his ship and current commander. If he said nobody had invaded his space, then Misfire was going to believe him. Same with the repair workshop. Crankcase stuck his nose in, sniffed suspiciously as if he could tell by smell alone if someone had ventured into _his_ workspace, and grunted again. No sign of their missing mech. 

That left the cargo bay, which was where Fulcrum had fled _from_. Didn’t make sense that he’d go back, but they checked anyway just in case. Also because they’d run out of other places to search. The outer hatches would have logged someone unsealing them to flee out onto the planet’s surface, so the K-Class mech was still onboard. Somewhere.

By process of elimination, that meant the ceilings. The _Weak Anthropic Principle_ had been a small ship utilizing all its space even before they’d filled it full of salvage. Krok had somehow commandeered it for his personal mission, but it’d obviously seen better days before then. Considering the condition of the rest of the ship, it’d probably been overhauled at least once by less professional expropriation specialists than the mechs currently onboard. Who knew what was up in the crawl spaces now. 

They had a pretty good idea of who, if not what. “Look, it was a **joke** ,” Misfire explained to the ceiling. “I know it didn’t involve anything with fuses or explosions, but surely you can wrap your head around something without those? Y’know. Regular, non-K-Class humor? It happens, sometimes.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Crankcase snapped. “It doesn’t happen around **you** , anyway.” The jet shot him a peeved look, but much like when he shot a weapon, it sailed harmlessly on by its intended target. Crankcase glared up at the ceiling as if it’d personally offended him and tried to sound remorseful. Or at least less caustic. “Think of it as Flywheels getting some revenge. You were the one who got him killed. You know it, I know it -- what’s the problem? We scared you; we’re even; done deal.”

Misfire tried out a chuckle. “Little inter-unit humor.”

“Yeah.” If Crankcase’s expression got any sourer, he’d have been lemon-flavored. “Ha. Ha.”

“You’re not fragging helping,” his companion hissed at him.

“This is fragging ridiculous!” the grumpy mech complained back at him. “He’s not here! We’re on a corpse-hunt, face it. Only living mech on the whole slagging dead planet, and he’s the world’s worst coward. He probably curled up and died of fear in a corner somewhere. Just our luck to -- did you hear that?”

“That way!” Misfire scampered off down the hall after the echo of someone, somewhere in the ship, crawling around in the ceiling. Crankcase ran at his heels, complaints forgotten.

Because a mech didn’t get claimed by a commander like Krok without accepting a few facts of life. 

First: Krok was going to keep going. 

Second: he was taking them with him.

And third and probably most important: every single one of them was now _his_.

Not one member of the ragtag group of Decepticons had ever had an officer like Krok before. They’d never been part of a unit where lost members were searched for, not abandoned. That didn’t stop them from recognizing a good thing when they belonged to it, but it felt slightly strange. Foreign, like an idea they’d heard of but never thought could apply to them. It felt almost like they owed loyalty in return. Almost as if acceptance meant, maybe, reciprocation.

Almost as if Misfire and Crankcase should find Fulcrum, because he was _theirs_ , too.

**[* * * * *]  
**


	8. Prompt 8

**[* * * * *]  
 _“creepy critters”_  
[* * * * *]**

“Oh dear **holy** Primus!” yelped down the hall.

“Problem?” Krok called back. “Fulcrum?” he added, knowing better but unable to help himself. His luck just wasn’t that good. His two nominally-intelligent idiots had searched for sixteen hours straight before he’d cut them a little slack and sent them off for a few hours rest. It wasn’t likely that they’d stumbled over Fulcrum between the medbay and the unit quarters.

“Shoot it!” Spinister put in helpfully, leaning over Krok’s shoulder and looking out the medbay door.

“No no, bad idea, very bad idea.” Misfire trotted around the corner with wings still twitching with shattered nerves. He gave the other two Decepticons the wide, slightly wobbly smile of a mech who’d just had his spark attempt to jump right out of his chest. “So, uh, you know how we left Grimmy in the bunks?”

Well, that was a poor choice of topics to start the day with. “Yes?” Krok said warily. He couldn’t see the smile, but he could hear the clicky sounds of nervous wings.

“He kind of transformed. And.” The jet shrugged, a little helpless to explain. Grimlock’s altmode was hard enough to describe, much less what the Autobot had done after transforming into it. “Made a nest? All the bunks are torn down and, er, fluffed?”

Spinister gave him an odd look for that. Grunt-bunks didn’t ‘fluff.’ Even the rotary mech knew that. 

Krok’s bandage-covered face somehow radiated skepticism. “Uh…huh.” 

“He’s being serious,” Crankcase said from around the corner, words practically dripping acid. No one would ever know if the tone was because the pilot was naturally composed of 80% bile and misery, or because he was genuinely upset at the condition of his bunk. “It’s a disaster area in there, and the big oaf’s curled up in the middle. No way are we bunking in there.”

“But I’ve been in the medbay the whole time!” Spinister protested. He seemed ready to break into violence to defend his innocence, but Krok pushed his gun down to point at the floor. That wouldn’t necessarily stop the moron from shooting, but it’d hopefully keep the friendly fire contained to the helicopter’s own foot.

“Wrong big oaf,” the pilot snapped. A grumble of, “This one’s bigger,” floated around the corner.

“Debatably more stupid, too,” Misfire said cheerfully.

His sudden cheer got a suspicious cock of the head from Krok. “What?”

“I just figured out the bright side of Grimmy wrecking our bunks,” the jet announced. He almost bounced on his thrusters.

“…you get to sleep with a Dynobot.” Krok’s voice couldn’t get any flatter if Grimlock had sat on it.

“Nope.” A happy smile, and Misfire skipped back the way he’d come. “Don’t want to disturb our hostage-slash-guest Autobot, right? So that means -- c’mon, Crankcase. To the officers’ quarters!”

“Frag **yes**.”

The W.A.P.’s lone officer sighed. That was probably the one and only time he’d hear Crankcase sounding, well, not _happy_ , but not _unhappy_. And it wasn’t like he could refute Misfire’s logic if Grimlock really had torn up the grunt-bunks that badly. Fine. 

“Don’t touch my bunk!” he yelled after them. A rude noise jeered down the hall, but not even Misfire had the gall to disobey a direct order. Besides, Krok kept the captain’s quarters’ locked. ‘Because Decepticons’ was a legitimate reason all on its own for that.

“Can I..?”

“Yes, Spinister. You may touch my bunk.”

“Can I..?”

“No. You’re not recharging with me.”

“...but…”

“Tell you what. Wait a few, then go find Misfire. He’ll keep the dark from looking at you funny, and if he protests, you can shoot him. Or hug him. I don’t care which.”

A childlike look of happiness swept over Spinister.

**[* * * * *]**


	9. Prompt 9

**[* * * * *]  
 _“monstrous transformations”_  
[* * * * *]**

There was a very large thing asleep in the grunt-bunks.

Fulcrum clutched his armload of energon cubes and cycled his vents for courage. The busted armor mounts on his shoulders continued to clatter against the wall, so it didn’t work. He pressed his back against the wall until the clattering stopped and breathed in again. Deep breath in; deep breath out. Oh, frag, what if the thing could hear him breathing?!

His vents seized, and he listened hard in the sudden silence. Nothing. Okay. Well, it _had_ looked like it was sleeping. At least, that’s what he thought he’d seen in that brief moment between dumbstruck staring and panicked retreat. He’d finally ventured out of the ceiling, hoping that Flywheels would forgive him if he did some sort of ritual where he offered the cubes to the dead mech’s old bunk, but that idea had been nixed when he’d discovered the bunks were all destroyed. And that there was a thing laying on them. 

It was a -- a -- a thing. A vaguely reptilian thing. He scraped up curiosity in place of his nonexistent courage and peered nervously through the door. A very, very large thing. Some sort of technimal? Did retrorats _get_ that big? 

He didn’t know. All he knew was that it had apparently decided to tear up the W.A.P.’s grunt-bunks. Tear up and rearrange, then settle down for a nap in the wreckage. Although it looked like there was some kind of method to the destruction. 

Fulcrum tilted his head, trying to look closer without actually entering the room. Had it…made a nest? Yeah, that was definitely a nest. Of all the places for a thing to make a nest, and it chose the grunt-bunks? He couldn’t think of a less comfortable place to make a home in. Or out of, in this case.

He chewed his lip and glanced over his shoulder. Should he go get help to kill this thing? He didn’t think it was a pet. Pets weren’t allowed by regulations unless they were useful to the Decepticon Cause. While this thing might be dangerous enough to qualify, it definitely didn’t look domesticated. Should he try to shoo it away on his own, then? Nobody had mentioned an infestation to him, but for all he knew, the thing was about to have _babies_ and overrun the whole blasted _ship_ and --

The thing raised its head, red optics blinking sleepily. “You…Fulcrum.”

Oh.

It wasn’t some sort of alien parasite invasion. It was just Grimlock.

Heh. ‘Just’ Grimlock. Now there was a thought Fulcrum had never thought he’d have. 

They’d all gone through long, patient introductions to the shellshocked, braindead Dynobot after hauling the big mech to the medbay. He hadn’t needed repairs; it’d been for lack of a better place to bring him. Anyway, Krok had been a little too out of it at the time to do more than muzzily agree with Misfire’s plan take the Autobot along, but the rest of the Scavengers had introduced themselves. 

Fulcrum had found himself all but kidnapped to the medbay himself by their overworked surgeon when he returned from the P-6 with his first load of salvage, but Misfire and Crankcase had prodded the Autobot in soon after. While Spinister was turning the battered K-Class mech into a mummy with repair nanite-culture bandages, the others had tried to communicate the essentials to Grimlock. Mostly, they’d just attempted to get him to memorize their names. And that they were friendlies. Knowing they were friendlies was kind of important for preventing death by Grimlock if he went on some sort of rampage while they were trapped in space with him. Preventing that was a good thing.

Not surprisingly, Spinister had communicated with him the best. Grunting and pointing were a universal constant, apparently. As for the rest of them, it seemed that repetition and firm physical guidance were enough to get the Dynobot to do what they wanted. Nothing they could do was going to fix his broken brain module, however. If they even wanted to, which Fulcrum most assuredly did _not_. He liked his legendary bad-aft Autobot killers tame and chock-full of poor grammar, thank you very much. Bring on the pronouns, _he_ said.

In the spirit of which, he took a step into the room and offered the Dynobot a cube. “Yup, me Fulcrum. You Grimlock hungry?”

The cube got a curious sniff, then a more interested one as the burnt-copper electric scent of energon registered. “Me Grimlock…” A confused look crossed the creature’s bestial face, curling broad lips away from frankly scary teeth. “…hungry?” He didn’t seem to really know what the word meant. Maybe he’d eventually make some sort of connection between idea and word-sound, but for now, Grimlock just seemed bewildered by the noise.

“Yes, you Grimlock hungru,” Fulcrum decided for him. Overfeeding a thing with that many teeth ensured that the many sharp teeth never had to go chomping when their owner got hungry. He could get behind setting up a regular Dynobot-feeding schedule. The K-Class Decepticon took another few steps forward and set the cube on the ground in front of Grimlock’s muzzle. “Here you Grimlock are.”

That huge head dipped, sniffing again, before Grimlock slowly heaved himself upward. Fulcrum retreated a step back to give the massive creature room to stand. And stand. And…wow. So that’s what a Dynobot looked like close up. Looked different than the pictures he’d seen -- more bestial, he thought -- but Fulcrum had been out of the war for a long while. Grimlock had probably gotten upgraded. 

“That’s some altmode,” the small ‘Con muttered, awed. All he got was a defused bomb for an altmode? Life just wasn’t fair.

The Dynobot stretched, nose to tailtip, which didn’t make Fulcrum any less impressed. He actually had to scoot out into the hall when the Dynobot’s tail hit the back wall, because the Autobot stepped out of his nest to stretch his neck forward instead. It wasn’t like the big guy could stretch _up_ , after all. At his full height, he’d have to duck to get through the door. The giant, teeth-lined maw opened, but Fulcrum didn’t feel more than a twinge of threat anymore. That was the universe’s biggest sleepy yawn right there, cheek and jaw tensile cables creaking as they were extended. 

Grimlock’s mouth snapped shut, and the beady red optics blinked once before the Autobot shook himself all over. The rapidfire side-to-side twist started with the Dynobot’s head and shimmied all the way down to his tailtip, which scraped over the back wall. That was weird. Fulcrum had never seen a mech do anything like it, although he’d once watched a turbofox doused in coolant do something similar. 

“Maybe you are a pet,” he mused out loud to himself. With his mind out of commission, the mech was more technimal than warrior. Putting it that way, Fulcrum could see the benefits of keeping a Dynobot around. “Think we could keep you?”

How did a grunt go about registering a pet, anyway? Krok had already okayed Grimlock staying onboard the W.A.P., so the superior officer hurdle was cleared. That just left the faction issue. Did ‘sentient’ and ‘Autobot’ count toward domesticated? Because technically the war was over, so they could make the argument that being useful for the Cause wasn’t such a big deal. Maybe if all the Scavengers pooled together and registered him as some kind of unit mascot, Decepticon High Command would just sign off on the request without looking too close.

Grimlock cocked his head at the sound of the Decepticon’s voice, but his attention was recaptured by the energon at his feet. The Dynobot’s huge head dipped, tipping back and forth to direct one optic at a time down at the pink fuel. After carefully nudging the cube with his snout, he slurped from it, tongue lapping in the most inefficient, crude fueling method Fulcrum had ever seen. It was strangely endearing. Something that big and fierce trying to get fuel out of a container that tiny, optics squinted nearly closed in concentration, huge clawed toes curling and flexing as he concentrated…yeah. Kinda cute. 

Also absurd, because he hadn’t quite realized just how big the Dynobot’s tanks had to be until the bestial mech made a sorrowful snuffling noise and tried to stuff his tongue into the bitty cube’s corners for the last dregs of pink liquid. If he wanted to keep Grimlock’s tanks full, it was going to take a lot more than a single cube. 

Expensive pet. Expensive, dangerous pet. 

…Krok was never going to let the Scavengers keep him. 

“You Grimlock want another one?” Fulcrum offered, smiling a little as the big Autobot’s tongue slid the empty cube around on the floor at his feet. He held out another cube from his armload. “You Grimlock hungry?”

The bestial mech perked up visibly, and he refocused from the empty cube on the floor to the full one being held out to him. The powerful tail waved once, slapping from side to side against the walls, and Fulcrum’s smile widened. The eager wriggling was charming, really.

Before the K-Con could set the cube down, however, the giant Dynobot’s muzzle nudged his chestplate. “You Fulcrum,” Grimlock said decisively. “Me Grimlock hungry.”

The word’s actual meaning might not have registered, but Grimlock had obviously picked up on the connection between repetition and results. The word-sound was now firmly associated with this small, bandage-wrapped mech handing him fuel. Fuel that he wanted. Now.

Suddenly, the wriggling looked a lot less charming and more like a predator getting ready to pounce. 

The smile became a sickly grin. “Ah…okay. Yes, okay, here -- ”

Another nudge cut the dud bomb-mech off, and then Fulcrum froze as teeth delicately closed around his whole hand, cube and all. There was something profoundly transfixing about seeing his arm sticking out that mouth. Hot breath blasted over him as the Dynobot snorted, and a sound like a drowning kitten came from the Decepticon. A tongue longer, broader, and stronger than his entire arm curved around the cube and whisked it away, and the poor little techie slagging well almost broke down gibbering. His hand was in -- razor-toothed maw of doom -- hand inside -- _eek._. 

The K-Class mech was still paralyzed with fear when Grimlock let him go. The released arm fell limply back to Fulcrum’s side, all strength gone. The mechanical beast tossed his head up, almost bashing against the ceiling. It threw the cube further back in that large mouth. Grimlock munched contentedly on it for a moment and swiped his tongue around his mouth, chasing the last traces of fuel taste before swallowing. The cube hadn’t held much, and his tanks growled for more. He looked down, zeroing in on his source of fuel, and champed his teeth. 

The giant, toothy snout poked at the comparatively tiny mech again. “Me Grimlock hungry.” 

Fulcrum looked between his armload of cubes and the way those sharp teeth parted hopefully. They weren’t really threatening him, despite the fact that they were long and very sharp and dear Primus, there were more than a few of them packed in there. They were just…waiting. Grimlock was waiting. Staring at Fulcrum and waiting, tail wagging slightly and toes curling in anticipation of the next cube. Just like a pet expecting to be fed. 

Well, what else could he do? 

He sighed and held out the next cube. His hand shook a little, but only a little. 

The good news was that at least he didn’t have to worry about Flywheels haunting him, now. Not even Decepticon ghosts would dare tick off Grimlock. 

The bad news was that when an Autobot six times his mass felt like nuzzling him, he was going to fall over every time. Getting snuffled at while he was down only sent him into one or two (or six) mild panic attacks before he got used to the bestial mech’s version of affection. He still had all his limbs afterward, but frag, Dynobots didn’t do ‘gentle’ terribly well.

Twelve cubes later, and there was a very large thing asleep in the grunt-bunks again. He was a vaguely reptilian thing, and none-too-intelligent at the moment. He had numerous scary-looking teeth and bottomless fuel tanks. He also purred his motor when content. 

Anyone who looked closely enough would see he was curled up around a K-Con with a striking chin.

The engine-purr could be heard out in the hall.

**  
[* * * * *]**


	10. Prompt 10

**[* * * * *]  
 _“The Other Side (as in a supernatural sense)”_  
[* * * * *]**

Sixteen hours and a four-hour recharge break had done nothing to sweeten Krok’s temper. It’d made him more tired and pained, in fact. There was something about having big, gaping wounds where there should be metal that did not make mechs happy. The gunshot wounds that Misfire was guilty for (Crankcase totally tattled on the jet) weren’t helping matters any. That had combined with all the other aches and agony the D.J.D. had left in their wake, and oh, hey, that crushing sense of responsibility Krok felt as the sole Decepticon authority figure in a six-planet radius. Probably the whole sector, but six planets he was sure of. 

Add to that his (anxiety issues) minor concern over his missing unit member, and Krok was not a happy ‘Con. Go figure.

He’d always thought he had a healthy amount of ambition for a Decepticon. Not too much to stand out (and get shot), and not too much to be apathetic (and get shot). Moderation and control had always been key; he secured what he had before risking the push for more. His caution had seemed like a good thing. He’d had a plan going: sign on as a grunt, get commissioned, slowly rise through the ranks until he took command of his own unit, and steadily build on that until he was in a position of real power. 

Good plan. Solid. Working out well for him. His superiors had actually _trusted_ him, because he was just ambitious enough to be proactive without being proactive enough to shoot them in the backs. Assuming command of his own unit had been a bit rocky, but not anything he couldn’t handle. 

His subordinates had been typical Decepticons. Good mechs for, well, Decepticons. He’d kept his guard up and tried to keep everyone alive. Weaponry had, for the most part, stayed pointed at the enemy. That’d been a positive endorsement of his leadership abilities according to Decepticon High Command. Lack of assassination attempts and/or success of the same? Score! Keep that officer in charge.

There’d been bad spots, but nothing he couldn’t get his mechs out of. They’d apparently managed to got out of the last bad spot on their own, which was fine. He couldn’t fault them for going on without him, but catching up had become an unnecessarily complicated procedure. 

First he’d needed a ship. That had…not been one of his better plans, but he’d pulled it off in the end. Then he’d needed to fuel it, and luckily he’d managed to acquire enough mechs to crew the rustbucket while searching for fuel. Resources were low, however, and trying to find fuel was a never-ending search. Becoming an expropriation specialist had not been part of his career plan, but he chose to regard it as, uh, padding his resume. He could dress it up as something like, _’Experienced in utilizing any available resource.’_ As well as those that weren’t available until he made them so, but -- yeah. Decepticon. Utilization of other people’s stuff despite their protests was a privilege of the faction brand, or at least the rank hash-marks. If he was incapable of begging, borrowing, or stealing it, then he could probably blow it up. 

Or recruit someone to do it for him. He’d found more crew, and they had a _wide_ range of talents. It said something about a commander when his unit roster included a K-Class frametype who failed to explode and a surgeon more useful as a killer. Krok wasn’t sure what _exactly_ that roster said about him, but ignorance was probably bliss in this case. 

Not so blissful: the whole unit had been added to the Decepticon Justice Division’s List. That said a whole lot about the unit commander, unfortunately.

Even without the massive facial injuries, that was a headache all on its own. Unless or until he cleared their names, his name was off Decepticon High Command’s promotion list. At best, he’d be demoted. At worst, he’d be terminated. At the very worst of all worst case scenarios, they’d hand him over to the D.J.D. for execution. 

Theoretically, the war was over. Krok would believe that as soon as Decepticon High Command told him so in person. Alright, no, he’d accept the Autobot equivalent telling him so if it’d turned out that the Autobots had won. Maybe then he could stop having to worry about the D.J.D. hunting them down. 

But confirmation and safety relied on reaching Cybertron, and right now, Cybertron was very far away.

Frag his life. He’d had a _plan_. He was a strategist. He was all about planning. Having a plan explode in his face wasn’t the end of the world, but it was frustrating. And painful. Literally, in this case. Right now, he couldn’t see physically -- but he couldn’t see a way out of this mess, either. That was the blindness he hated most. The pain he could take, but helplessness he could only fret about.

He’d tried his best to be a _good officer_ , and it hadn’t been _enough._ Just what the frag more could a ‘Con _do?_

So pile all that on top of the poor officer, and then have one of his unit go missing while he could do nothing to go look for him. Being useless on top of feeling helpless? Not fun. Add in an overly cheerful and unrepentant voice over his commlink, and Krok’s horrible, terrible, no good, very bad day was complete.

“Hey, Krok.”

Complete. Over with. Full up. That was it. Krok was officially done with this slag.

“ **Rust** your **wings**. If you haven’t found him yet, I don’t want to **hear** from you,” he growled into his commlink, and he could hear Spinister jolt across the medbay from him. The dread Superior Officer Voice was one he was finally prepared to back up with violence on one his own mechs, and much to even Krok’s surprise, the rage bled through clearly. “You come back without Fulcrum in tow, and I’ll let Spinister use you for target practice. No, surgery practice. I’ll **ground** you, flyer! Next time we need spare parts, we’ll use your blasted wings first, and I will personally make you **watch** Crankcase melt them down in the forge. Wherever Flywheels is, I hope he comes back just to haunt your annoying aft!”

Oh, grease crud and used engine oil. Flywheels. As if Krok had really needed to dwell on how he’d failed the spastic mech -- yes, okay, he’d been restrained, but he’d still been _right there_ when the D.J.D. had killed him -- he’d just reminded himself that it was his duty as unit commander to carry out any final will and testament of the deceased. It was a duty that most officers sneered at and most grunts ignored because, er, Decepticons didn’t really tend to honor the dead so much as recycle or abandon them. But Flywheels had recently converted to NeoPrimalism, and he’d actually requested last rites according to his new religion.

That -- huh. Frag. Krok was going to have to do some research. 

Misfire seemed taken aback by the snapped, cursing tirade. “But…Krok? I, uh, what?” This was the same mech who didn’t seem to get it why ‘Cons were insulted when he referred to them by ‘loser’ and ‘pinhead’, so Krok was somewhat resigned to the clueless, wounded act. It passed soon enough. Instantaneously, almost. “Right, whatever you say. Only not, ‘cause I like my wings. Actually, I kinda hope wherever Flywheels is, he’s taking pictures for posterity. Krok, you gotta come see this!”

Whatever ‘this’ was, if it wasn’t their unit’s convicted cowardly criminal, Krok was not interested. Unless it was a NeoPrimalist manual. He’d take one of those right now. “ **Mis** fire…”

The warning tone got through to the hyperactive jet, possibly because the last time his commander had taken that tone with him, Misfire had spent sixteen hours talking to ceilings throughout the W.A.P. “No, seriously, it’s cool! We found Fulcrum, he’s fine, you just gotta come see this before they wake up!”

Misfire’s enthusiasm could only mean bad things. Nothing the jet was that excited about could be good. Krok didn’t have that kind of luck. 

On the other hand, Fulcrum was found. Which seemed too good to be true, at this point. “Where is he? What’s his condition?” Krok asked suspiciously. He paused, suspicion deepening. Crankcase and Misfire were looking for Fulcrum. Spinister was keeping a very close optic on Krok himself, refusing to even let him leave the medbay. That accounted for the whole unit, so who was this ‘they’ Misfire spoke of? “Before **who** wakes up?” 

“Grimmy and Fulcrum are -- “

“Get him **out of there.** ” Raw connections sparked painfully in the jagged pits filling his face, and Krok swayed as stabbing pain taxed his systems. He still took two staggering steps toward the medbay door before Spinister caught him. “Do you copy that, Misfire? Get him away from Grimlock **immediately**!” The officer didn’t struggle against his strong, stupid medic, but the rotary mech wasn’t so stupid as to stop restraining him. 

He’d agreed to bring Grimlock aboard the _Weak Anthropic Principle_ because Misfire’s reasoning about hedging bets had been sound. Also because he’d been a tiny bit delirious with fresh agony, but Decepticon officers never admitted to hampered judgment. Regardless of why he’d agreed to allow the Autobot onboard the ship, it didn’t mean Krok trusted him. His subordinates all claimed the Dynobot was braindead, but he didn’t know why they thought that. He’d yet to get a full debriefing on how the fight had ended, much less the aftermath. All he knew was that they were still alive, and the D.J.D. had somehow been driven off. 

Spinister seemed genuinely too focused on putting everyone back together for Krok to justify breaking his concentration. Concentration from Spinister was like silence from Misfire: rare, and usually enforced from the outside. Although Spinister had broken his work periodically to natter on about Crankcase and a ‘Might Mega Puncher,’ whatever the frag that was. It sounded like a video game end-move, to be honest. 

Krok had woozily asked what that was about when he’d come back online the first time, but Crankcase had cleared his filters uncomfortably and pled work before bustling back out of the medbay to go strip down the P-6 Worldsweeper. That wasn’t the reaction of a conquering hero, so either the ‘Mighty Mega Puncher’ hadn’t ended the battle, or it had, but not in the way Crankcase had intended. The ‘Con was being a weaselly little bastard by avoiding questions, so Krok didn’t know. 

Yet. The officer’s focus was shot to slag at the moment, but Krok was patient. He could outwait the pilot. He could outwait them all, in fact, because they obviously knew something. It was a grunt conspiracy. They’d gotten themselves a Grimlock, but a Grimlock with a mysterious infection of the Stupid Disease; they’d survived the Decepticon Justice Division, despite all the odds against that actually happening; there was a ‘Mighty Mega Puncher’ and Fulcrum’s terrible condition somewhere in among these facts. All these little stories that added up to one big concealment. 

Nobody was explaining anything, but Krok could wait. The W.A.P. would lift off as soon as the Scavengers finished stripping the P-6, and then they’d be trapped on a small ship with Krok. Four grunts, one officer? Good odds for an effective interrogation. 

In the meantime, the Decepticon officer pored over what he did know. Which…wasn’t enough.

Fulcrum had made a funny _’meep’_ sound of dismay when queried about why the D.J.D. had targeted him, and oh yes, Krok was going to get _that_ story. Along with just how Fulcrum had managed to get himself so damaged Spinister had temporarily abandoned Krok himself to tend to the smaller Decepticon. The surgeon had started wrapping up the little mech while Fulcrum guiltily confessed to the conviction behind his reformatting, and Krok had nearly started laughing. It wasn’t really funny, but come _on._ A K-Con convicted of cowardice? _Of course_ he’d ended up on Krok’s team. It was a cosmic inevitability.

The universe was fragging laughing at the officer. He could swear it -- or at least swear _at_ it. 

The cowardice conviction had been absurd enough to require an explanation of the circumstances behind it, and Krok had demanded one. That’s when Spinister had reached Fulcrum’s head, however. From Misfire’s laughing narration and Fulcrum’s muffled noises of protest, the medic had gagged the K-Class mech in the process of wrapping up a helm injury. Convenient timing, especially when the squirrelly K-Con used being gagged as an excuse to stay quiet and high-tail it out of the medbay before his brooding CO realized Spinister had finished. 

Too convenient. Krok had added Spinister to the Grand Grunt Conspiracy Theory.

Then he’d taken the rotary mech right back off again. Because, really. Spinister. Yeah, no.

Trying to get relevant information out of Misfire, as always, had been an exercise in futility. The blasted jet was more of the universe’s giant joke on Krok. Haha. Ha. Slaggit.

“But why?” the hyperactive waste of fuel was whining to Krok right now, because urgent orders from an officer were heard and promptly filed somewhere behind his cortex’s _’Oo, Shiny!’_ folder. “Grimsy’s asleep. Fulcrum’s asleep. They’re both asleep. They’re so asleep we could hear them snoring out in the hall. Frag, you can probably hear them snoring from medbay!” There was a moment’s pause, and the jet actually seemed to get more excited. “Whoa, can you? Krok! Krok, can you hear them? Open the door, open the door!”

Patience. This situation required patience. Krok could wait. He could be patient and wait until Misfire came within reach before _strangling him_. 

“I **would** , but I’m apparently under **medbay arrest** ,” he grated out, turning his head to aim that at the medic restraining him. The partially-functioning optic sensors in his one compressed but unshattered optic spitzed static across his vision, trying to compensate, and the pain in his head redoubled. He cut his side of the comm. just in time as a wave of agony-spangled prickles took his legs out from under him. “Not agaaaaaiiiin…”

When he recovered from the (unplanned, humiliating, _weak_ ) fainting spell, he was laying down. From the familiar feel of berth padding, Spinister had carried him back to the medbay’s sole repair berth again. His tanks were rolling unpleasantly, but at least his levels showed he hadn’t purged when the nausea hit this time. Having his self-repair amped up like this drained his other systems like mad, causing the black-outs and a nasty roiling vertigo he couldn’t control. Ugh. 

There were fingers checking the bandages completely covering his head. He hated those blasted repair nanite-culture swathes. They’d seemed novel and useful when the Scavengers had first found them. Non-invasive slow repairs were a good thing, right? Except that now he’d kill for a decent pain patch. Even a half-stocked medbay would have the supplies on hand to fix some of what had been torn out of his head by Vos’ face. As it was, Krok could only lay back, fists clenched, and let Spinister fuss. 

His audios could pick up the gritty scrape of damaged parts grinding together deep in the wounds, and every time the medic ran a scan over him, he kept making unhappy sounds. Spinister being unhappy usually translated to Spinister shooting things, but apparently in this situation it translated to Krok being put on an intensive surgery schedule.

Spinister hadn’t been able to explain what he intended to do during the operations, but he’d transmitted a list of what he wanted to fix. It was a long list. There were lots of important things in a mech’s head, and Vos’ face had done copious amounts of damage to those important things. That’d been intimidating, and Krok had not felt any better about it when Spinister had followed the initial list up with a list of how the injuries would soon compromise healthy systems if left untreated. The medic didn’t have the equipment to outright fix some of the problems, but he seemed confident that he could at least minimize further complications. Maybe. If Krok was getting the gist of what the rotary mech tried to tell him before all the words confused the medic too much to continue.

“ -- hear me? Krok, c’mon, this isn’t funny. Krok, say something. Spinister, make Krok say something! Krok! Krooooook.”

“Can I shoot him?” Spinister asked hopefully, hands never stopping their work.

“No shooting,” the officer said on automatic. 

“Krok!” Misfire sounded relieved. “Scrap metal and rust, you freaked the bolts off -- “ A door swished, and heavy thrusters stampeded in. “ -- whoa. You look like slag.” 

Well, well. Look -- or hear, in Krok’s case -- who’d come visiting. “Flattering, Misfire. Come over and say that again, hmmm?” 

That got a nervous laugh and zilch obedience. The self-preservation instinct was strong in this one. The jet stayed prudently out of arm’s-reach, hovering over by the door. Or so it sounded, anyway. Krok turned his head in that direction and pretended his optics could shoot lasers. It was a harmless fantasy, and one that seemed to get results. 

Misfire blurted words under the optic-less glare. “Look, we tried to get Fulcrum like you said, but, uh, there was a minor complication. Very minor!” he rushed to assure his commander when the wounded ‘Con jerked upright, trying to stand. Spinister put one hand on Krok’s chest, and it said something about how drained the officer was that one hand flattened him. “It’s just that Grimsy’s kinda curled around the loser, so we had to wake him up to ask him to let go, and he’s, er, well, fixated? On Fulcrum? And we thought it’d probably be bad to bring them both in here when you sounded kinda out of it, because you’re armed and all? You didn’t, um, sound like you’d like waking up to, hey, surprise! Autobot! Right?” 

The way Misfire kept saying things like they were questions was making Krok’s headache worse. Grunt reports only sounded like suggestions when the grunt was trying to minimize repercussions from the report. _’I’m just the messenger? Sir? So don’t kill me?’_

Krok carefully cradled his bandaged head in his hands and indulged in a long, resigned groan. “So you’re telling me that a notoriously unpredictable machine of rage and destruction is following Fulcrum around the ship unsupervised.”

“Crankcase is with them?”

Right, because Crankcase was going to be _such_ a help again a _Dynobot_. The mech’s helm was already damaged. How convenient for when Grimlock decided to start bashing brains in; the nut was already cracked open. “Crankcase and Fulcrum, then. Who are, may I add, Decepticons. Decepticons being what Grimlock is famous for going berserk on. Is that what you’re telling me?”

The gentle prodding finally ended. “War’s over. That’s what you told me. It’s why we’re not supposed to shoot Autobots in front of witnesses anymore, yeah? Anyway, he seems like a nice guy,” Spinister said as he wiped his hands down. Krok could hear the slithering of a polishing cloth. “Fulcrum said that’s why he got left on the symbol ship.”

“No, he said Grimmy got left behind because he’s braindead,” Misfire corrected, and Krok started planning on just who he was going to corner for an interrogation first. He needed to know what exactly had _happened_ after he’d gone down.

“That’s what I said.”

“What -- ? No you did -- wait. You think ‘nice’ equals ‘braindead’?” 

“Isn’t that what it means?” The rotary mech seemed oddly surprised. 

“Uhhh. Spinny. We gotta update your internal dictionary with some more accurate definitions -- hey! **Hey.** You said **I** was a nice guy when I first came onboard!” Cue the insulted squawk from Misfire, and confusion from Spinister. “I’m not a nice guy! I’m -- I’m -- frag, what am I. What’s your lexicon got for ‘badaft Decepticon flyer’?”

“Um. ‘Starscream’?”

“…that is so cool. I’m -- “

“But he’s a good shot, so nope.” 

Oo, _denied._

Krok couldn’t help it. He laughed out loud despite how much it hurt. That sound? That was the sound of a punctured ego deflating. Misfire’s vents wheezed sadly. 

Spinister sounded a bit confused by what was going on, but he went on to assure Misfire, “You’re just too nice a guy compared to Starscream.”

More wheezing, and the _crackle-pop_ sound of a vocalizer failing to initialize. There was long moment of silence. It was the sound of Misfire, for once, being at a loss for words. That sad, sad ego had deflated down onto the floor like a balloon to be kicked about by Spinister’s earnest honesty. It was hard to find an error in the rotary mech’s weirdly twisted but brutally Decepticon-accurate internal definitions. 

Krok found that he was surprised by his own lack of surprise. Somehow, none of this was even vaguely striking him as odd anymore. He’d gotten used to being in charge of the Scavengers. He rather felt like he was leading an insane asylum instead of a military unit. He was probably just another inmate with pretensions of rank.

“Yeah, okay,” Misfire said finally. He sounded totally crushed. “I’m trying to come up with a way to counter that, and I got nothing.”

Another chuckle got out before Krok could stop it. He carefully shook his head. “Bring me Grimlock and Fulcrum, Misfire. I think I need to talk to both of them.”

Krok might not be much of a leader, but there was a saying about madness and methods. He’d just have to scrape a plan out of what he had.

He sighed as Misfire trudged off. He’d have to find a manual on NeoPrimalist last rites, too.

**[* * * * *]  
**


	11. Prompt 11

**[* * * * *]  
 _“witchcraft”_  
[* * * * *]**

It’d been a long week.

From technician to convict to K-Class had been a longer, more horrible transitional period, however, so Fulcrum wasn’t complaining. Fitting into the _Weak Anthropic Principle_ ’s crew had only taken seven days and a close encounter of the D.J.D. kind. Sadly, near-death experiences were becoming so commonplace in his life that the seven days were sticking out as more significant in his memory. 

Seven days of learning how to be an, ah, expropriation specialist had changed his priorities all around. Well, except for the survival-based ones. Those stayed pretty stable, but since the other Scavengers seemed like staying alive, that was okay. His perspective on just how a mech stayed alive had definitely become skewed, on the other hand. Walking around Clemency looking for spares and energon had been on-the-job training, but that training had gone into overdrive when the Scavengers went back to the P-6. 

He’d thought he’d been getting the hang of checking over corpses for useable materials, but no. Frankly, he was an amateur among experts.

Hand Misfire and Crankcase a dead body, and they were clever in how they stripped it down and used it. Give them an entire P-6 Worldsweeper, and they were outright _brilliant_.

Before they’d managed to freak him out into hiding in the ceilings for 18 hours, they’d given their newest unit member the crash-course in how to break anything and everything down into its most valuable components. Fulcrum was good with computers; these mechs were good with materials. Frag, they were great. Anything and everything was potentially useful, and they’d done their level best to cram their parts-evaluation standards down the newbie’s throat. Salvage experience in fast forward.

Fulcrum had staggered back to the W.A.P. carrying armloads of things he couldn’t even identify, but knew down to his struts were going to mean the difference between life and death in the near future. Misfire and Crankcase had been right there with him, just as convinced that the only way they’d get Krok’s hunk of junk ship all the way back to Cybertron was by using what they could pry out of the P-6. The cargo bay was a complicated 3-dimensional jigsaw puzzle of everything they could drag away and cram in. 

They’d have tried lifting off in the Worldsweeper, but -- no. Mysterious crash? Brains on the ceilings? Fleshy walls? Creepiness factor to the _n_ th degree? 

That shared survival priority thing had kept anyone from even suggesting it. 

It was a sign of how Fulcrum’s secondary priorities had changed that when he was released from Krok’s ironclad (if bandaged) grip, he went looking for the other Scavengers. They were, of course, down in the cargo bay. Because where else would they be? The K-Class mech didn’t even need to check the comm. frequency to know where they’d ended up.

He was back on the frequency himself now that Krok had solemnly promised to rip him open and turn the comm. on himself if Fulcrum dared turn it off again. Grunts weren’t supposed to have override access for their unit channels, and his new commanding officer had been somewhere between intrigued and incensed that Fulcrum did. But the K-Class reformatting hadn’t bothered to tear out old equipment. Under all the altmode armor casings and bits of bomb-attachments, the techie was still just a techie. Just more explosive. Also more aerodynamic and balanced for the initial dive. 

However, the K-Con techie was a techie who’d once been in charge, and therefore he had some modifications that simple grunts or low-rankers didn’t have access to. Including the ability to drop off Krok’s comm. frequency tracker at will. 

Krok had given him a look when Fulcrum reluctantly admitted to the mods. No, not a look. A Look. It’d definitely been a Look. All the bandages hadn’t helped with interpretation, but Fulcrum thought it’d meant he should never, ever use that mod again. And, uh, maybe look into having it quietly deactivated before Krok had Spinister remove it with a blunt object. His new CO did not _like_ that Fulcrum had officer-mods that foiled his attempts to know where the unit was at all times. 

That had, more or less, led to an absolutely _mortifying_ conversation about why a Cyberforming project manager was on the D.J.D.’s List. Explaining how, precisely, that had come about had led to another squirm-worthy bandaged-up Look from Krok. He’d been aware that Fulcrum had been convicted of cowardice, and thought it somewhat amusing. A K-Con coward; hilarious, right? The K-Class were known for their fearlessness, after all. 

But Krok hadn’t known about the techie’s rank beforehand. The Decepticon officer apparently had strong opinions on what rank hash-marks meant for a mech. 

Funny, but Fulcrum hadn’t felt particularly ashamed of his crime up until that point. 

“You ran,” Krok had stated flatly, not even asking.

“Yeah.” It was nothing to be proud of, but hearing his commander say it that way twisted something exceedingly chagrined in Fulcrum’s spark chamber. 

Disapproval had radiated off the officer sitting stiffly on the repair berth. He’d obviously been sitting judgment. “What about your mechs?”

Fulcrum had very nearly said, _”What **about** them?”_

And that, uh, had kind of said everything right there. Never had seven words so succinctly summed up the difference between being a commander and being in command.

Wow. He’d been through a trial. He’d been convicted. This was the first time he’d given a thought to anyone else’s fate during the attack. It was also the first time it’d been brought up. Nobody had said a word about his subordinates at his trial. Their lives or deaths hadn’t been factored into his conviction at all, and Fulcrum had stared dumbly at Krok and suddenly known that it should have. He’d been project manager. They’d been his responsibility. 

He’d shuddered as humility drenched him like a flood of cold coolant. He’d been judged before, but standing there in the medbay being judged by the first officer he gave a flying frag about…

Maybe it wasn’t the difference between seizing power and being someone worthy of it. Maybe it wasn’t just Fulcrum seeing the contrast between the Decepticon thugs who tended to grab power and the truly decent officer who’d sat before him. It was more the fact that recognizing that contrast rubbed his face in the fact that he’d been a lousy officer. Not a bad mech, not a thug or a sadist, but still a lousy officer. 

The contrast had been there all along, but it was seeing the lack of comparison that made him ashamed. Any comparison between himself and Krok was laughable.

There was no way Krok could see anything through all those repair nanite-culture swathes. The techie had still lowered his gaze. “Didn’t really think about them,” he’d muttered at last, forcing the words out for judgment.

And he’d been judged. Silently, because Krok had merely Looked in his direction for a short while before dropping the subject and turning the conversation to other matters. Namely, Grimlock. That had been interesting -- the Autobot had transformed back to rootmode and been wandering aimlessly around the medbay while they’d talked -- but Krok’s disapproval had remained. They hadn’t spoken of it again, but it’d been there. Krok had painstakingly, politely ignored it, and Fulcrum had withered into a miserable lump of agonizing over it.

It was pretty bad that Krok’s low opinion of him had been the gestalt in the room even with a Dynobot in there with them. 

So being dismissed from the medbay had been a relief. Oh, had it been a relief. Fulcrum had scurried out like his aft had been on fire. 

The irony of his changed priorities guiding him to immediately seek the rest of his unit out was lost to him. He didn’t think about why he thought first of what the other Scavengers were up to. He just went off to join them. 

“Hey, loser! We keeping Grimsy?”

“ **Careful**. I just pulled that out of the pile. Don’t **touch** it!”

Although he had trouble remembering why as soon as the door to the cargobay opened. Fulcrum glared at Misfire and stepped smartly around the part Crankcase warned him away from. “Yes, and I wasn’t planning on it, respectively. What are we doing?”

Misfire returned his glare with a manic grin. Crankcase just grumbled and went back to digging while the jet wriggled out of the mass of stacked materials to bound over and hang off of Fulcrum. The K-Class mech let him. He was actually used to the touchiness by now. “We’re **building** things,” Misfire said as if it were the most awesome piece of wizardry the universe had ever seen. “We’re building things and fixing stuff, and then we’re going to install it and get off Clemency for good. Repairwork! Like magic, only with more science, y’know?”

“Believe it or not,” Crankcase put in dryly, barely visible among the P-6’s salvaged parts, “the W.A.P. is actually spaceworthy. Needs some of the crud flushed out, but I can get us off the ground again in a few hours.”

“Oh.” Fulcrum blinked. That was good news. “So what am **I** doing?” Because he clearly should be doing something. He was part of the unit. He couldn’t let these mechs do all the work. That wouldn’t be fair, and, anyway, he still felt bad about bringing the D.J.D. down on them. He owed them something, and…well, they were a unit. Working together was what units did, right?

Besides, watching these guys at work was kind of amazing. He’d been in charge of dedicated construction frametypes who couldn’t have made this scrap useful again.

An inkling of a thought about how his priorities had shifted began, deep in his cortex, but then Misfire started shoving things into his arms. “Carrying things! You’re here to carry things. All this has to go to the bridge, and we need to uncouple all of these, and what the slag is this, Crankcase? I don’t remember picking this up.”

“We can use it,” Fulcrum said, mouth on automatic as his mind smoothly kicked over into analyzing the part in Misfire’s hand. That got a flash of a proud smirk from the jet and a loud scoff of overdone mockery from Crankcase. The K-Con ducked his head, a hint of a smile tugging on his own lips. 

Yeah. It’d been a long week, but not in a bad way. Not bad at all.

**[* * * * *]  
**


	12. Prompt 12

**[* * * * *]  
 _“superstitions”_  
[* * * * *]**

Brooding in the medbay, Krok laid back and let his exhaustion finally show. Keeping up appearances in front of the grunts was always important, but Fulcrum was a Decepticon ex- _officer_. Not much of one, perhaps, but still more dangerous than a simple grunt soldier. Krok didn’t feel threatened, not really, but the K-Class mech would require careful handling.

He kept a close watch on the unit channel. After a few minutes, he sent a ping out requesting locations. He only relaxed one he got all four location pings back, obediently reporting in. Spinister was right across the room, of course. The fact that Fulcrum’s location was practically overlapping Crankcase and Misfire’s lightened Krok’s mood considerably. He hadn’t sent the coward to them, but it was vastly reassuring after the K-Con’s tale of failure that he’d automatically gone off to rejoin the rest of the unit. 

Hmmph. Krok would train the mech up right, yet.

“We really keeping him?” Spinister asked from across the medbay, and for a moment the officer thought the medic was referring to Fulcrum. 

There was a rustling noise that didn’t belong to rotors, however, and an irritated grunt. Oh. Grimlock. “Yes,” he said, already regretting his decision.

“Sit **down** ,” Spinister ordered sternly, and the grunts and rustles became what sounded like a minor wrestling match. “Not there! That’s my -- scrap, scrap, scrap, off the tools! Get off the tools! Afthead. Now, let me see th -- ah, ah! No! Don’t transform in here! Bad Dynobot! Bad!” The beginning clicks of a transformation sequence reversed as a violent _clang_ cut them off. It sounded like the medic had whapped the much larger Dynobot upside the head. Krok gently cradled his bandaged face in his hands and waited for the fight to start.

Instead, the medic pulled out a coaxing tone Krok had only ever heard people use on new-sparks. He hadn’t even known Spinister could _sound_ like that. It made his head ache listening to it, mostly because of whom it was being directed at. This…was just not right.

“Ooookay, there’s a good Grimlock. Sit. Sit right there. Good.”

“Muh…me Grimlock.”

“Yup, you sure are.” There were more clicky noises as Spinister apparently started checking the Dynobot over. “Huh. You remember who I am?”

“You…Spinny.”

“What? Frag. I’m gonna punch Misfire one if he taught you that. I’m Spinister. Spin-i-ster.”

“You Spinny.”

“ **Spinister**.” Another loud _clang!_

Krok helplessly held his head tighter, just waiting for Grimlock to snap out of it and then snap Spinister in two. 

He didn’t want to take the Dynobot along with them back to Cybertron. He wasn’t a superstitious mech, but taking the sole survivor of the P-6’s mysterious crash onboard his ship just seemed to be asking for more bad luck. In fact, it seemed like a bad idea on top of his deluge of already bad luck. But really, his entire ragtag unit had a history of bad luck, so Grimlock couldn’t possibly make things worse. 

Misfire had made a good point about bringing him, and Fulcrum pleaded with pretty words, and even Spinister had said he couldn’t fix whatever was wrong in the Autobot’s head. Logically, it made sense. That wasn’t calming Krok’s visceral _’NO’_ reaction down any, but he’d strangled his gut-deep denial with grim determination. They needed a plan. Grimlock’s presence as a bargaining chit gave them something to work with. Misfire had had one of his fits of scavenging brilliancy, which was really his only redeeming talent so far as Krok could tell. Fulcrum just wanted someone big and dangerous to hide behind, to be honest. Spinister? 

Krok had dire suspicions that Fulcrum had already slipped the dumb medic the pet registration filework. Spinister would go along with anything if he trusted a mech, and not even nearly getting killed by the D.J.D. was enough to erase the link between ‘trusted mech’ and ‘unit member.’ 

Sometimes, Krok’s teamwork training could be _too_ effective. 

“You Spin-i-ster.”

“There! Good Grimlock.” There was a noise that, horribly enough, sounded like Spinister had just patted the massive Autobot on the head. In response to which, even more horribly, an engine started purring happily.

Okay, this whole pet idea? Krok was going to dig it out of his unit and squish it with extreme prejudice. No way in the Pit were the Scavengers keeping this mech around any longer than they had to. Krok had endorsed the idea of taking Grimlock along, not _keeping_ him!

“Okay, turn, turn. Ugh. You’re filthy.”

“We’re all filthy,” Krok sighed. The W.A.P.’s one washrack was attached to the medbay, and it was just as unstocked as the medbay itself. Nobody had gotten around to even seeing if the hose hookups were still in place, much less thought about finding something to fill the reservoirs with.

“Yeah, but he’s extra-special filthy. Like, Fulcrum-filthy.” 

Krok snorted air out his vents contemptuously. Fulcrum hadn’t been that bad, had he? Laying in statis for ages after crashing on a war-dead world certainly hadn’t left him pristine, but they’d dusted him off a bit. Anyway, a little dirt served him right for the cowardice thing. Not that Krok wished him dead, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to give the ex-officer the cold shoulder for the sake of the mechs Fulcrum had abandoned.

“I guess it’s because he and Fulcrum kinda took on the D.J.D. head-on,” Spinister continued absentmindedly, obviously just letting his vocalizer run as he worked. “We were really just trying to get away, but Grimlock was fighting the whole time and Fulcrum gave that funny speech thing and tried to kill himself.”

…wait, what?

“’Speech thing,’” Krok repeated.

“Yeah.”

“’Tried to kill himself.’” Was attempted suicide how Fulcrum had gotten so damaged? Had the K-Class mech not even _tried_ to fight?

Krok’s opinion of his new subordinate ticked just that much lower.

“Yeah.” More scuffling noises, and the engine purr became an uncomfortable whine. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s cold. If you didn’t have a rock lodged down there, I wouldn’t have to poke down so far down, but you do so I do. Deal with it.”

“What was the speech about?” Krok asked, prodding his idiot savant medic back into the conversation.

“Huh? Oh, that. I don’t know. Something about how this was for them -- us? Us, I think. Then he jumped and turned into a bomb and didn’t go boom. It was supposed to blow up the D.J.D., but I took out his explosive charge, remember? So he just kinda made a crater, and then -- hold still. Grimlock, look at Krok. See Krok? Keep looking at Krok, there’s a good Grimlock. Sir, can you wave your hand or something? He’s getting antsy.” 

Feeling bemused by life in general, Krok obligingly waved his hand. It seemed that he’d gotten so caught up in indignation over Fulcrum’s past crime that he’d forgotten to ask the little K-Con about how the fight with the D.J.D. had ended. The answer to that sounded like it might actually be more interesting than Fulcrum’s initial story. Might even explain why he hadn’t had to do damage control between the cowardly techie and the rest of the crew. Krok had thought he’d have to smooth some ruffled aerilons, but Misfire and Crankcase had just hauled the newbie off for work without a hitch.

“Spinister,” he said slowly, lowering his hand, “how about you tell me what happened after I went down.” 

It took quite a while, continually pushing Spinister back on track, but what most mechs forgot about Spinister was his perfect memory. He didn’t retain knowledge well, and he didn’t learn quickly, but he _remembered_. He didn’t understand everything he saw, but he could describe it. Including a Mighty Mega Puncher -- Krok was never letting Crankcase name anything, ever -- and its short reign of terror on the battlefield. Also, some kind of deranged, decayed turbofox that’d been gnawing on Misfire before Spinister managed to boot it away. 

The rotary mech didn’t know what everything Fulcrum had said in his speech meant, but he remembered what he’d heard word-for-word. He didn’t know why somebody named ‘Overlord’ was more important than making sure that Fulcrum was dead and the rest of the Scavengers kicked it, but he faithfully reported what he’d heard Kaon and Tarn say before they left. 

Krok listened to everything carefully, and he considered it all. One thing that could be said about him as a strategist was that he took everything into consideration before forming an opinion. Or reconsidering an opinion he’d already formed, on occasion. 

A giant toothy Dynobot head ended up next to him on the berth midway through, looking for petting. Krok’s nearest hand might have delivered a few skritches, but he’d never admit to it. And, if caught, he’d blame it on whoever had taught Grimlock to refer to him as _‘You Sir.’_ Somebody on his bad luck crew of misfits and strays was too clever for his own good.

That didn’t mean he was going to sign off any registration filework. Nope. No way. The Autobot was braindead, but still hugely dangerous. He was allowing the Scavengers to take him back to Cybertron, and that was it. Because getting attached to Decepticon-killing death machines was a _bad idea._ That was his decision, and he was sticking to it!

Grimlock rootled closer and chomped his massive jaws a few times, obviously content.

Krok already regretted his decision.

**[* * * * *]  
**


	13. Prompt 13

**[* * * * *]  
 _“disguises”_  
[* * * * *]**

W.A.P., Fulcrum had come to find, didn’t really stand for _’Weak Anthropic Principle_.’ He was fairly certain the initials actually stood for _’Wasted Armor Plating.’_ It wasn’t any less a weird name, but at least it fit the ship better.

“ _’Weak and Plundered’_ ,” Crankcase theorized from beside him. The cynical mech had, for once, found a sympathetic audience for his grumbling. By about the fifth ship-wide breakdown on their second day off Clemency, Fulcrum was bitching in chorus with him.

They were the Ceiling Duet of Pessimism. Dark outlooks on the future from on high. Because, yep, Fulcrum was back in the ceiling again. 

“Nah, nobody would want to plunder this piece of scrap,” the K-Con decided. “Who puts the main computer access hatch halfway across the ship from the bridge?” he complained for the third time since they’d finally located the fragging thing. Seriously, whoever had overhauled this ship last needed to be shot. Preferably in the face. A main computer access hatch in the ceiling was ridiculous.

He wriggled along a bit further, tugging his bandages loose when they snagged and heaving himself over the other Decepticon’s legs. He accepted Crankcase’s knee digging uncomfortably into his chest in order to reach the secondary link-in socket. That jogged the mechanic’s elbow with his hip, but this wasn’t the first time they’d done this dance. It wasn’t even the second. Crankcase just hitched his shoulders up yet further and kept tearing out frayed wiring as the technician all but laid across him to continue fighting the glitched navigational program. 

Fulcrum’s optics went unfocused after a long moment of entering authorization codes, and he slumped over the other Decepticon. Crankcase ignored his dead weight. Normally, technicians used datapads to work on computer code, because it was generally a bad idea to work with internal heads-up displays instead. Inevitably, diverting attention to HUD resulted in this absentminded limpness as bodies were forgotten in the barrage of data. That left a mech vulnerable, and usually? Usually, vulnerable Decepticons were dead, pranked, or otherwise targeted mechs.

Also, the probability of accidentally transferring glitched code into a techie’s onboard computer skyrocketed by directly connecting. Since the sole datapad on the W.A.P. was owned by Spinister, however, that’d ruled out Fulcrum using it. Nobody knew if the rotary mech had filled it with medical data or the universe’s simplest set of video games, but nobody was going to try to take it from the exceedingly violent Decepticon either way. 

So Fulcrum direct-connected. While in the ceiling, practically laying on Crankcase. Because the W.A.P. was a cobbled-together piece of junk that barely functioned even when it was fueled.

“Found where we got turned around,” the techie said detachedly, still staring at nothing. 

“Yeah?” That actually got an interested grunt from Crankcase. He was doing mechanical repairs right now because he’d given up piloting the W.A.P. until the ship had a functioning navigational system. Somehow, he’d managed to steer them back the way they’d come for a day and a half before catching on to the error. Krok was having quiet spaz-fits in the medbay as a result. 

The other reason Crankcase was in the ceiling doing repairs was because it was a good idea for grunts who screwed up to stay out of their pissed-off superior officer’s immediate vicinity. 

“We launched right, but looks like gravity turned the nav-sat upside-down before we escaped orbit.” Distracted optics squinted. “Physically, I think. The code’s coming back clean, so…”

“External repairs. Joy.” Crankcase’s voice made it clear that it really wasn’t. “Misfire!”

“What?” The jet poked his head up into the ceiling. That got even Fulcrum’s attention, and the dub-bomb joined Crankcase in staring for a brief moment. Misfire grinned back at them, arms folded on the ceiling panels, relaxed and casual. He certainly wasn’t using his thrusters to hover, which left -- oh.

“Are you…using Grimlock as a stepladder?” Fulcrum asked cautiously. 

“Me Grimlock very tall,” boomed proudly from somewhere below the jet. “He Misfire very short.”

Misfire shrugged unrepentantly, having spent the last half an hour patiently teaching the Dynobot those phrases to justify his own stupid antics. “What he said.”

“ _’We’re All Pathetic’_ ,” Crankcase sarcastically suggested to Fulcrum, and the strong-chinned mech could only agree.

**[* * * * *]**


	14. Prompt 14

**[* * * * *]  
 _“Storytelling”_  
[* * * * *]**

It was hard, being laid up.

Sure, Krok could move. They could all move. Thank Primus, they were all mostly functional but for poor Flywheels. Encounters with the Decepticon Justice Division didn’t usually go that well for mechs, even Decepticons who _weren’t_ on the List. So the _Weak Anthropic Principle_ ’s little crew had gotten away comparatively unscathed, and they all knew it. Fulcrum probably thanked his lucky stars for that quite frequently.

That didn’t make the injuries any easier to suffer. Fulcrum got tackled by Spinister the minute he showed up on the W.A.P. toting his first load of scavenged stuff from the P-6 Worldsweeper. The K-Class mech had gingerly walked away from that encounter wrapped up like a mummy in ugly swathes of repair nanite-culture bandages knotted around his battered body. Misfire and Crankcase had made sure to point and laugh at him. 

They didn’t laugh at Krok. Krok’s whole head had been carefully covered in the bandage swatches, building layer upon layer of metal-rich resources for his self-repair system to use to rebuild his torn face. There was nothing else Spinister could do for their sole officer. The medic just didn’t have the resources to do anything to replace what had been yanked out. Vos’ face had torn hideous chunks of Krok’s own metal out, and the W.A.P.’s medbay had no supplies. Spinister operated three times using his own tiny emergency surgery kit just to cap off the worst of the damaged systems, but beyond reconnecting or taking out irreparable mechanisms deep within the various gashes, he could really only amp up Krok’s own body. While the other Scavengers were off stripping the P-6 down, the surgeon had bandaged Krok’s face and fed enough energy into him to send his self-repair into hyperdrive.

That’d been excruciatingly painful at first, then just a dead drain on him. Krok found himself passing out periodically as his other systems attempted to compensate for the drain. Spinister insisted he stay in the medbay until the black-outs passed, but then the surgeon had had some sort of brain spark that’d ended up with a frankly scary surgical schedule. Spinister had raided the P-6 on his own and come back toting supplies that made no practical sense to anyone without medical experience, apparently. One day after the launch from Clemency, and Krok had been flat on his back again, groggily recovering from the first of what appeared to be a list of vital operations. 

Between the surgeries and continued black-outs, that meant he couldn’t really go anywhere. He was laid up.

Laid up Decepticon officers were basically targets, but that wasn’t what had Krok restlessly pacing around the room by the second day. Unlike most officers, he’d have been more relaxed with his unit members here with him. He’d lost Flywheels. As ridiculous as it was logically once they left Clemency, Krok still felt like he could lose the rest of his unit. It was paranoia speaking, he knew. Seriously, where could they go? Space? 

…well, Crankcase and Fulcrum were complaining continuously about repairs, and eventually someone would have to go out onto the hull to fix the navigational installations. If not that, then Crankcase would take a crack at fixing the fragging shield projector. The perpetual pessimist had been bitching about that since he’d joined the unit. He seemed convinced that they were all going to die in a hail of asteroids if he didn’t bring it back online. 

Krok didn’t know he found that idea of random death by asteroid field more or less alarming than one of his mechs leaving the ship and not coming back.

The blinded officer took another turn around the medbay, tense unhappiness radiating off his stiff shoulders as he walked. He realized he was only working himself up, letting his imagination conjure unlikely scenarios, but there was only so much he could _do_ stuck in here. He’d already pinged Crankcase, Fulcrum, and Misfire for locations and gotten a set of amused and annoyed pings back reporting where they were and what they were doing. Any more than that, and he’d be exposing his own weakness. Decepticon officers who got too attached to their subordinates were setting themselves up for those subordinates either turning on or being used against him. It was no secret that Krok wanted his unit close-knit and working well together, but…he couldn’t afford to let his mechs know that he was, ah, slightly protective of their well-being. 

He turned and walked back the way he’d come, resisting the urge to ping again. He’d really prefer it if they were all within visual range. Audio range in Misfire’s case. 

“You okay?” Spinister asked from the direction of his workstation. He’d gotten absorbed in hammering out one of Fulcrum’s shoulder panels, and that was good. The less Krok had to remind him of what he was supposed to be doing, the more work the rotary mech actually got done. 

It did mean that it’d taken Spinister about twenty minutes to clue in to his commander’s pacing, however. Observational abilities weren’t ranked in Spinister’s best skillsets. Krok suspected that he’d been moved from the medical ranks to the grunts because some casualty had bled out before the rotary mech had gotten around to noticing something was wrong.

“I’m fine,” Krok said, mind still busy. Maybe if he snagged Fulcrum for a ‘getting to know the new subordinate’ chat when he came in for a fitting from Spinister? He had been re-evaluating his initial opinion on the little K-Con since Spinister had filled him in on what’d happened after Vos took him out. He wanted the story in Fulcrum’s own words before deciding how much responsibility could be entrusted to the ex-project manager. Theoretically, having an ex-officer in the unit could be a good thing. It just depended on how much Krok would have to lean on him to keep him in the unit instead of running at the first hint of trouble. 

That’d keep Fulcrum in place for quite a while. Misfire would naturally gravitate toward any group, the larger the better, and getting a conversation going with Misfire around was _not_ going to be a problem. Fulcrum hadn’t been exposed to the chatterbox ‘Con long enough to develop the ability to tune him out, either, so the K-Class mech would end up trapped in the conversation. Even if Krok had to sit on him to keep him there. That left Crankcase, but despite how hateful the mech seemed, eventually he’d come looking for the rest of the unit. That accounted for all of them, but that wasn’t the challenge. The challenge was Krok managing to keep them here once he got them in. 

Hmm. 

He turned a suddenly speculative gaze on Spinister. Er, well, he turned his head in the right direction, anyway. His optics were theoretically on the mend, but they were useless for actual sight at the moment. From what proximity sensors and audios told him, the rotary medic was turning the piece of armor over and over. Knowing Spinister, he was totally caught up in the glitter of light on the dents. It was Krok’s task to keep him working, but that could serve another purpose right now.

“Spinister, hammer the dents **out** ,” he reminded the brilliantly stupid surgeon. Because otherwise the mech would start putting more in instead. He walked over and leaned against the wall beside Spinister, making sure that he was facing the direction of the door. It was open, because he’d propped it open himself. Pathetic as it probably was, he’d wanted to catch any sound of the crew that he could. “Do you want to hear about the battle of Cromnick’s Pass while you work?” he asked Spinister.

“What’s Cromnick’s Pass?” the medic asked, predictably enough, and Krok launched into the tale.

There was a method to talking to Spinister. To Misfire, too, although that was less about avoiding complicated concepts and big words. As long as Krok kept things moving along at a fast enough clip, varied his voice, and threw in lots of arm gestures and sound effects, his two twits would listen to whatever he had to say. Dealing with Misfire and Spinister had turned Krok’s flair for dramatic speaking into a necessity. He’d had to hone it, because the universe was full of really distracting things in direct competition with him for their short attention spans. He knew that he had to be the most interesting thing around in order to keep them focused on him.

So when Krok started storytelling, Spinister paid attention. And his voice spread through the halls outside: a rich, ringing lure of droll humor and tidbits of oddball information to troll in front of passing mechs. _Heeeere, Scavengers. Come here. Here! C’mere. There’s a good unit._

Two hours later, and the whole crew was gathered in and around the medbay listening to him. Misfire was talking over and around him, excited by something as per usual. Fulcrum and Crankcase were debating whatever piece of the story they’d picked up on, but half their attention remained on the officer still pretending he was only speaking for Spinister’s benefit. The medic worked steadily, prodded on by the nearest mech whenever he got distracted. Even Grimlock was there, curled up on the floor as that entertaining, factual voice narrated a past he didn’t remember. 

Krok was a war historian. He had a lot of tales to tell, and every reason to tell them well.

His Scavengers stayed in the medbay with him for a long time.

**[* * * * *]  
**


	15. Prompt 15

**[* * * * *]  
 _“keep your nightmares close”_  
[* * * * *]**

“This can only end badly.”

“You say that about everything,” Misfire said lightly, tying another knot. He ducked under Grimlock’s broad chest with the end of that strap in hand and almost had to hug the Dynobot’s neck in order to grab the next piece he needed. “If we listened to your predictions, we’d just shoot ourselves in the heads to get this depressing farce of a life over with more quickly.”

Crankcase’s frown became thunderous, and he looked away to scowl at Spinister’s back. Fulcrum watched him brood, and the K-Con’s face pinched unhappily. There was typical Crankcase angry, and then there were various shades of non-typical Crankcase angry. He kicked Misfire in the shin until the jet stopped tying knots long enough to look up inquiringly. The impressive chin jerked in their pilot’s direction, and Misfire blew a sigh out. That wasn’t typical Crankcase angry lurking in the doorway. 

Looked like the pilot was going through a depressive phase. That shade of angry looked like borderline-hurt angry. 

Since when did Misfire even recognize this slag? Why did he care in the slightest? When had interpersonal concerns become something Decepticons did?

Maybe about the time the war ended. Or maybe when Misfire got his wings pinned back the first time by Krok for not giving a flying drill bit about his new teammates. It was fragging _weird_ having a unit that wasn’t trying to punt him out the airlock when he recharged, but…that wasn’t a bad kind of weird. Not the kind of weird anyone in the room felt comfortable openly discussing, but not bad.

So he might, just maybe, feel obligated to make Crankcase feel slightly less miserable. If that was possible, anyway.

“Yeah, yeah, point taken, pinhead,” he muttered. “Hey, Cranky! Think you can make me some buckles? This’d be easier if we could make it a harness instead of a mess of knots every time we gotta put it on him.” He pulled on the knot he’d just finished in illustration, and the mech in the doorway slid an annoyed look toward him.

That particular shade of angry looked like a mechanic given a challenge, however, so Misfire just smirked -- mission accomplished! -- and heaved himself half up onto the Dynobot’s back to grab a dangling strap on the other side.

“It’s a stupid idea,” Crankcase put in despite the appraising way he was now looking at the tangle mass of strapping. Misfire wordlessly jeered back as he all but fell back off the Autobot again, strap in hand. 

Grimlock hardly noticed. The Dynobot was in his bizarrely bestial altmode again, licking persistently at a cube Fulcrum held in his hands instead of giving to him. The much smaller mech was refusing to let him crunch it up. The K-Class Decepticon didn’t care about the cube itself, but preventing Grimlock from just eating it whole kept the Autobot’s attention locked on it until even the taste of energon was gone. Only the tip of the Dynobot’s tongue could fit in the comparatively tiny cube, but that was enough, apparently. Grimlock made _schlup_ ing noises, rootling determinedly at the corners of the cube and crowding the K-Con. Fulcrum let him nudge and twist, almost burrowing into him. He was hardly afraid of the big lug at this point.

He was more afraid of the surgeon working on the other side of the medbay. Spinister had already taken a shot at Grimlock’s tail for _”moving weird.”_ Fortunately, the dumbaft Decepticon had been distracted enough by being wrist-deep in Krok’s drilled-up face that he’d missed. Spinister versus Grimlock wasn’t a fight anyone wanted to see from anywhere nearby. Since they were all currently crammed into the medbay, it would have been an up-close and personal view of the show. Audience participation and mangling would have been unavoidable.

“You tell me a better way to keep Grimsy here with us when we land somewhere,” Misfire continued, still tying knots. “We’re gonna have to, you know. I got a lot of low grade fuel out of the P-6’s reserve tanks, but that stuff’s the weakest energon available. We need concentrated power to keep the W.A.P. going, and the only place around this sector to get that is planet-side.” Meaning that they’d have to land again and siphon innermost energon from the dead left on the battlefields. “He’ll wander off if he sees something shiny, just like Spinister does.”

“I don’t wander off!” Spinister straightened up indignantly. 

“Surgery!” Misfire, Fulcrum, and Crankcase chorused right on cue.

The rotary mech looked down, appearing to notice Krok’s opened face once again. “Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

Fulcrum looked up at the ceiling in a wordless appeal for help from Primus. Crankcase and Misfire were too used to goading Spinister along to bother with theatrics or exasperation anymore, so Crankcase just went back to leaning against the doorframe and Misfire kept tying his knots. Spinister was an ace surgeon, but only if someone kept him from getting distracted. That required reminding him every other minute of the fact that he was supposed to be performing a delicate operation on their poor maimed officer. 

Thus the reason that the sterile conditions and quiet of a surgical theatre meant to foster concentration had been tossed out the airlock in favor of all the Scavengers cramming into the W.A.P.’s medbay to watch Spinister work. And, naturally, that meant bringing their hostage/unit mascot in with them, because leaving him to wander the ship alone was a Bad Idea. It was only a matter of time until the Dynobot sniffed out where they’d hidden the energon cubes. The door was locked, but that wasn’t going to stop _Grimlock_ , of all Autobots.

On the other hand, offer him skritches? Grimlock would stop dead in his tracks for jaw skritches. 

Krok probably wouldn’t like that there were four Decepticon grunts and an Autobot captive in the medbay while his face was open to anything and everything they could do, but, well. Spinister refused to leave his side until the first round of vital surgeries integrated with self-repair. The other three couldn’t leave the medic for fear of his attention span fastening on the movement of the door, leaving Krok to bleed out on the berth while Spinister went over to stare. They couldn’t let Grimlock be by himself. That left them with no choice but to group together and watch surgery happen.

Sometimes, Decepticon High Command gave an officer more than he could handle, and the mech was crushed under the weight of responsibility. Sometimes, Command was very far away and silent, so an officer just ended up overburdened naturally. And then there was Krok, who was at the bottom of the pile because his unit dozed off while laying on top of him. It wouldn’t be the first time since Clemency that the whole unit ended up snoring on the floor of the medbay while their officer recovered. Krok had started warning the floor before he attempted standing up, just in case someone was recharging under the berth. One only had to step on a Dynobot once before learning that precautionary measure. 

“How **does** Krok keep you from wandering off?” Fulcrum asked their defacto medic after a few minutes of _snip-click_ noises from the tools Spinister was delicately manipulating. It was utterly unreal watching the stupid soldier swing from violent warrior to focused surgeon. “I’d have thought you’d try picking a fight with a corpse and gotten lost at some point at or another.”

“I’ve never picked a fight with a dead mech,” said the mech who’d picked a fight with a torch, once. “That’s stupid.”

“…yes, it is. What was I thinking.” Obviously, what had he been thinking to try asking _Spinister_ for information? The K-Class mech twitched and looked to Crankcase. “Do you know?”

“Rotor hub,” Crankcase said shortly. “Krok hauls on it when he,” the pilot jerked his injured head at Spinister, “starts wandering. Are you an idiot?” The last was asked of Misfire, who was knotting Grimlock’s makeshift leash around one wrist. “Don’t tie yourself to him.”

“Why not?” The jet brandished his leash-wrapped wrist proudly. “Now we’ve got him under control! No wandering!”

Crankcase just stared at him. After a moment, he took a step back, outside the medbay door. “Hey, Grimlock.”

The Dynobot looked back over one massive shoulder, oddly reptilian alien-beast face questioning. 

“See the shiny nut? Look at the shiny nut.”

“Nonono, Grimmy -- no!” Misfire started tearing at the leash, but it was already too late. Grimlock’s optics had fastened on the very shiny hexagonal nut in the pilot’s hand. Fulcrum barked a laugh. Spinister looked up, but didn’t seem to get what was going on. “Crankcaaaaaase!”

Crankcase smirked and pitched the nut down the corridor as hard as he could. “Go get it, Grimlock.”

**[* * * * *]**


	16. Prompt 16

**[* * * * *]  
 _“magic trick”_  
[* * * * *]**

When a mech’s brain module was open to all and sundry, there really wasn’t much further down in life he could go. Crankcase had decided that wasting energy on optimism would only depress him further than inevitable death. At least if he skipped straight to believing the worst, waking up was a pleasant surprise every time. Or at least a slightly less miserable moment in the ongoing misery of his existence.

The way he saw it, what was the point in dressing up reality in bright, happy lies? Nonfiction trumped fiction every time.

No matter how delusional other mechs were.

“Aw, c’mon! It’s not **that** bad. Think of it this way: one day you’re a mech of legends, a warrior beyond compare, a berserker without a social life because of that one party you literally crashed, and the next you’ve got the same intelligence level as the floor. Or maybe you lost your entire unit under mysterious circumstances, and your crew’s kinda afraid you’ll lose it completely if anyone tells you they aren’t ever coming back and we’re not gonna catch up with them until we kick it. Okay, or you might be Spinister. Because, yeah, Spinister. I mean, see what I mean? You could be **Fulcrum**. Now there’s a loser. So, see? You haven’t got it half bad, Crankcase!”

The grouchy pilot felt cool air waft over his open helm and ducked automatically. Misfire was making with the grabby hands, again. “Stop that,” he demanded without looking up from his work. “And shut up. I’m busy.”

He didn’t tell the annoying jet to go elsewhere, however irritating the nonstop jabbering was. Right now, keeping Misfire contained fell on his overburdened shoulders. Keeping this junkheap flying, piloting it, squashing Misfire whenever he got too excited, and firing up the micro-forge for a couple projects. Crankcase hated that this was his life. 

He hated even more that the hyperactive jet reaching toward his head again -- “Cut. It. **Out.** ” -- had a point. He really could have it worse, at least in comparison to the rest of the unit.

Krok was unconscious in the medbay, recovering from another round of the surgeries Spinister insisted were necessary but seemed uneasy about explaining. It was obvious that something had to be done -- Vos’s face had rammed spinning _drill bits_ into Krok’s head, for Primus’ sake -- but Spinister hesitated oddly when pressed about how bad the damage was. 

Part it was probably because Decepticon medics were notoriously reluctant about reporting weakness in officers unless sufficiently bribed. The other part was likely because talking about the damage would only make them wonder about what he could really do about it, and that was a train of thought that went dark places. Spinister didn’t have supplies to work with. Thinking about that fact wasn’t going make anyone happy.

So of course Crankcase had thought about it. At length. He knew what was going on in the medbay, and it was all depressing. He knew that Spinister had plastered Fulcrum’s shattered outer casing with repair nanite bandages, and that he’d gone rooting through the maintenance closet to pull out any piece of Flywheels that could be reshaped to fit the much smaller K-Class Decepticon. What wasn’t being repurposed on Fulcrum was intended for use on everyone else, including the medic himself, but it wasn’t like any old chunk of armor could be transferred over to a mech. Things like weapon-mods and such were easier to transfer over, because they were meant to be installed. Things like body parts, however, required surgery. All the wiring had to be connected, all the neural networks delicately linked in, the fluid tubes unkinked and flushed clean, the cables strung, and motor control checked. 

Even then, a mech’s self-repair system could reject the new part by swarming it with nanites unless the surgeon convinced the system the donated part was acceptable. Spinister had been forced to pull off some of Misfire’s redundant armor when the jet’s systems showed signs of rejecting donor strips from Flywheels. The rotary mech had shaved thin metal peels from the plating’s undersides and used them to replace the donor strips on the damage the sparkchewer Pet had done. Misfire’s systems were being finicky, but that wasn’t uncommon. 

Crankcase himself was no stranger to metal-donor rejections. His head wound kept rejecting every new helm piece tried on him since it’d happened. The pilot figured that, in his case, the damage was just too massive to accept anything but an entire transplanted helm. He wasn’t getting his hopes up or anything, but he’d seen what’d looked like the shredded remains of Flywheels cranial casing in the back of the medbay. Spinister had shooed him out before he could ask about it, but…maybe. 

They’d been on a planet covered in dead bodies, and the only one fresh enough to be accepted by living mechs’ systems was Flywheels. That was kind of sick but cool, in an odd way. At least he was staying with the unit, right? There was something a little comforting about the idea of wearing Flywheels’ helm.

Bah. He wasn’t going to count on it working. Raising hopes only led to an inevitable crash.

Anyway, trying to question Spinister about what he was doing would end in confusion on both sides. That confusion was probably the other side of the violent surgeon’s reluctance to talk about Krok’s surgeries. None of the Scavengers were sure if the medic didn’t _want_ to tell them what exactly he was operating on, or if he was just _too stupid_ to tell them what he was doing. One could never tell with him.

Ah, the conundrum that was Spinister: brilliant surgeon but complete moron at the same time. 

The medic himself was actually in recharge, which had taken everyone by surprise. It shouldn’t have, but nobody had been keeping track of anybody else’s downtime. They’d been working far too intently while on Clemency, and running around chaotically doing stopgap repairs all over the W.A.P. ever since launch. Clemency was three days behind them, now, and Spinister had finally completed the first round of the vital surgeries. Or so they theorized. It was either that or his systems had reached their limits and gone into emergency statis. He’d apparently been working without recharge since the D.J.D. attacked, which was something the other Scavengers only figured out when he keeled over after rewrapping Krok’s head. 

It’d only been mildly alarming watching their sole repairmech slip into a statis-coma sans explanation. 

Fulcrum might have shrieked like a civilian. 

No, check that. There was no doubt about it. He really had. Misfire and Crankcase were never letting him forget it. 

“What a loser,” Misfire had chortled. “Wish I’d gotten an audio file of that.”

That’d gotten a pained look for said loser’s lost dignity, but then the big yellow optics had turned to where Crankcase was checking Spinister’s vitals. “Is he okay?”

It’d been like being stared at by a cyberpuppy with a strong chin. Crankcase had wanted to pat him on the head and tell him to get his bearings upgraded to a larger diameter. The pansy. “He’s **fine**. Exhausted and in need of a cube or two, but I wouldn’t suggest trying to pour it into his tanks yourself.”

Anxious he might have been, but mostly for his dissembled and/or shattered exterior plating spread out across the medic’s workbench. Sentimental feelings were no substitute for common sense. The K-Class technician had taken a healthy step away from the slumbering surgeon. “Violent, huh?” When it came to potential violence, Fulcrum was no fool. Coward, yes; idiot, no. 

“Comes up swinging every time. Nearly took off my head once.”

“Good thing the target’s smaller than a normal mech’s,” Misfire had added, faux innocent, and Crankcase had lunged at him over Krok’s unconscious body.

Once Fulcrum had yelled the two brawlers back into line -- Crankcase smelled the suspicious scent of Authority Figure on that one, coward or not -- they’d dragged Spinister off to sleep in the officers’ bunks. Hopefully, he’d recharge fully instead of letting his medical protocols override his own functions again. Short of tying him down, none of them knew how to prevent that, however. 

It’d seemed like a Bad Idea to tie down their only medic when Krok hadn’t even woken up from surgery yet, so they’d gone with writing a note on the back of Spinister’s hands. Roughly translated from the language of dumbaft, it said, “Go back to sleep until we say you should wake up.” Except in shorter words that they were fairly sure he could actually read without effort. 

It’s not that they didn’t think he could read, but…comprehension was different than ability. There’d been an awkward moment of realizing that in order for Spinister to have been kicked out of the Decepticon Medical Corps., he must have tested into them in the first place. The Scavengers weren’t sure what that said about the rest of the Corps., but it did mean that their stupid surgeon had to have more education than all of them combined. He just, uh, didn’t remember to apply it the majority of the time. And when he did, he often couldn’t explain what he was doing or why. It was like playing Intelligence Roulette, bullets included. 

It made being in Spinister’s unit a party every day. Woo. The excitement.

Misfire had helpfully drawn a _Go To Sleep, Spinister_ instructional diagram on the inside of the door, just in case the note didn’t work. Knowing Spinister, he’d follow the picture directions without thinking. Hey, whatever worked. If it got him to recharge a few more hours, they’d give interpretive dance a try. 

In any case, that had left Misfire, Crankcase, and Fulcrum as the only conscious crew. Because Misfire was a nuisance at best and actively useless the rest of the time, that’d actually left only two functional Decepticons to work. Theoretically, they could have assigned Misfire to minding Grimlock, but that was a mistake mechs only made once. 

That once, the jet had somehow thought it a bright idea to get the Dynobot completely trashed on experimental engex concoctions. It’d taken Misfire half of his engex mixer set to get the Dynobot overcharged. From what Misfire told the others afterward, the bestial mech had just kept scarfing the potent little cubes as he’d been handed them. Five Decepticons trapped on a ship with a giant drunken Autobot warrior sounded like the premise for a horror vid, but it turned out that the Autobot was dumber than a wall and twice as docile when overcharged. It’d been less a horror than a comedy. The others had even agreed that drunken Grimlock was a pretty entertaining thing to watch. It’d been funny watching him stagger around.

The amusement had lasted until the hangover. That? Not so much fun. Far more horror than any of them had liked. Misfire was never babysitting Grimlock ever again.

Hence the reason Fulcrum was the one minding Grimlock right now. Someone had to, or the Dynobot would get bored and find something to do. Like destroy another room. They’d like to keep the rest of the ship intact, thank you very much. Fulcrum had solved the problem of keeping the Autobot’s attention by hooking up one of the ceiling lights to flash multicolored lights in a pattern. Grimlock had been immediately mesmerized. Crankcase almost hadn’t been able to push Misfire away, for that matter. 

While the Autobot was busy watching the pretty lights, Fulcrum was trying to convince the _Weak Anthropic Principle_ ’s main computer that, yes, they did indeed need the navigation system and life support to function at the same time. This was something that the W.A.P. insisted on arguing with him over. This was not an argument anyone onboard wanted the K-Con to lose. 

Fortunately, as weak as the little Decepticon’s backstruts were in real combat, he apparently didn’t take any backchat from computers. He’d practically puffed up and prepared for battle the second time life support went out. What little altmode plating he still had intact fluffed out as if trying to make him appear bigger. Since he was, by far, the smallest mech in the unit, the threat display failed spectacularly. The two much-larger ‘Cons had simply looked down at the riled techie and prudently vacated the area.

Misfire had smiled dopily and lost his grip on his giggles once they were around the corner. “It’s like watching a petrorabbit sharpen its teeth. Ooo, scary.” 

“Terrifying to wiring if the pests gets into your base, though,” Crankcase had said back. “I had one gnaw on my ankle once after it was finished munching on the inside of a monitor. Didn’t do much, but it was cute watching it try.”

“Ah, Primus, now I can’t get the image of that loser with petrorabbit ears out of my head.”

“Thanks for sharing. Now **I** can’t stop seeing it. Ugh. Mental optic damage, here.” The corner of Crankcase’s mouth had _almost_ twitched up.

“We gotta get him some.”

“I suppose I could make a pair…”

“I can still **hear** you!” Fulcrum had called indignantly. “And don’t you dare!” The two Scavengers had fled toward the repair workshop, snickering all the way with, “I mean it!” yelled down the hall after them.

So Fulcrum was in and out of the ceiling to access the main computer, and also scurrying around after Grimlock whenever the Dynobot went tromping about the ship. Along with that, he was periodically checking in on the medbay to make sure Krok hadn’t died yet, and he popped into the officers’ quarters whenever he ran by to look in on Spinister. 

Since Crankcase wasn’t much use as a pilot without a functioning navigational system, he’d gone back to his workshop to fill the order Krok had given him. He didn’t understand why the officer wanted him to make a face mask to specifications that didn’t fit his own face -- a mask over a facemask would be redundant, no matter how badly damaged Krok’s currently was -- but grunts didn’t question orders. Especially not orders from an officer who had the eerie power of unwaveringly staring in a mech’s direction despite Spinister swearing that Krok’s optics were completely nonfunctional. Bandages or not, Crankcase could _feel_ Krok glaring at him. 

It wouldn’t surprise Crankcase if having his optics shattered by the D.J.D. had somehow given Krok the power to peer into a mech’s spark. It seemed to be on the right level of creepiness.

And therefore Crankcase was going to quietly machine the fragging part Krok wanted him to fragging make, because his fragging CO could unnerve him just by sitting there doing fragging nothing. 

Alright, maybe he hadn’t done it quietly. Maybe he’d grumbled some. 

If by ‘grumble’ one meant ‘complained loudly enough to be heard over the table saw.’ 

Thankfully, Krok was safely unconscious. Not so thankfully, Crankcase had felt it was sort of his responsibility to do more than just forge a part. Fulcrum had taken on three tasks at once. Four-ish, almost. Crankcase wasn’t going to be outdone by some stupid newbie. 

Thus, Misfire and his grabby hands were in the workshop, too. With his nonstop chattering. It didn’t appear to matter that Crankcase had muffled his audio receptors while he worked. He kept the mufflers in place even after he finished cutting scrap on the table saw. Misfire just upped his volume until the pilot couldn’t pretend not to hear him anymore.

The mechanic-cum-pilot ducked again. Fingers were venturing far too near his exposed cortex. “Cut it out!” he snapped again. 

He kept his cracked visor on his work. He was almost done with the mask Krok wanted. He only had to smooth out the edges, and then he could deliver it to Spinister for actual fittings. He’d never seen the surgeon use a forge, but Spinister seemed to be able to handle everything else. Molding the mask’s shape and installing fastenings probably wouldn’t be that difficult for the rotary mech as long as someone sat there reminding him what he was supposed to be doing.

“Crankcaaaase.” Misfire was the first Decepticon he’d met who _whined_ like this. Just his luck that he’d met the jet under a commander who didn’t approve of punching the whininess until it went away. “Crankcase, I’m **bored**.” The word was said the same way most mechs would say ‘terminally diseased.’ As if boredom were the worst thing Misfire could endure.

Yeah, no. Not so much, if the blasted jet stopped to think about it. Boredom was _good_. 

“Imagine what the D.J.D. will do to you when they catch up with us,” Crankcase ordered as he ran the welder up the last edge. The jagged bits of metal melted to blobs that melded into a seamless finish when rolled quickly over the workbench’s surface.

There was a blessed moment of silence, then an uneasy laugh. “A-heh. No, that doesn’t sound like something I want to imagine. How about we change that sentence to ‘if’, eh? ‘If’ statements are so much less certain.” Flaps clicked as the jet fussed in place, his incessant fidgeting unusually subdued. Perhaps because of the subject, but more likely because Crankcase knew the secret to keeping Misfire’s exuberance toned down. “ **If** the D.J.D. catches up to us. Yeah. If, as in not going to happen. Because I can run really fast, you know.”

He didn’t seem very confident of that fact, possibly because nobody went to Crankcase for reassurance. The pilot working at the bench knew the D.J.D. would catch up to them eventually, and he applied his bleak outlook liberally. 

He cast a black look over his shoulder at the irritating jet. “It’s going to hurt. Everyone always threatens a flyer’s wings, but not the D.J.D. They’ll probably start with your feet. The thrusters have to go. I wonder if Vos will be stuck up them and shot, blowing out your knees at the same time, or if Tesarus or Helex will crush them in their hands? They’ve got strong hands. Remember the broadcast of Greybanger’s execution? Helex collapsed his helm just by squeezing. They might do that with your thrusters. Squeeeeeze,” he drew out thoughtfully, “until the weakest point of the circumference cracks, and the whole thruster just crushes inward. Huh, maybe they’ll go the traditional route and just jam you into Tesarus like they did Flywheels.” The nervous-winged clicking had picked up as Misfire’s optics got wider and wider, but Crankcase shook his head. “Now, me?” He turned back to his workbench and checked over the mask. “They’ll probably take my hands first. Not much use as a mechanic **or** a pilot without my hands.” 

He’d already learned how to be a mechanic when his piloting skills had been useless with his last unit. Likelihood of living long enough to learn yet another skill was fairly low. Especially a skill that didn’t require hands. Call Crankcase a pessimist, but that wasn’t a situation that held much hope for the future. Not that there was ever a situation he considered hopeful, really.

“I don’t like this topic,” Misfire said in a small voice. “I think we should talk about something else. Can we talk about -- about -- um, what’re you making? Yeah. Let’s talk about what you’re making. Can we do that? We should totally do that.”

The pilot blew air out his vents grumpily. He’d set aside the completed mask and was sorting through the various pieces of scrap he had on hand. “I suppose we could. It won’t make our inevitable torture and death any less -- “

“What are you making! Tell me what you’re making! Whatcha making, Crankcase?!” Fingers swiped as if they could pull a better conversation out of thin air. The gloomy ‘Con had prudently sidled out of reach before forecasting a future of doom and terror, however, and Misfire’s systems whined urgently. “Wow, it looks neat! I have no idea what it is but I’m sure it’s the most awesome thing you’ve ever made, now **tell me all about it**.”

The thick edge of desperation in Misfire’s frantic voice got a hidden smirk from the working mech, who deliberately kept his face turned away. Fulcrum kept looking for some kind of magic unit member button to push that’d shut Misfire up, but Crankcase knew better. There was no button. The only way to get Misfire to sit still and behave was to _make_ him do so. _That_ was the unit secret. No mystic button, no hidden officer move that Krok could pull out and suddenly Misfire would be a good little Decepticon grunt. Nope. There were just various tried-and-true methods of physical restraint and distraction.

In Crankcase’s case, that meant holding a conversational topic over the jet’s head that’d make Misfire squirm to get away, plus a mysterious can from the P-6 that had simply been labeled _’Wheeljack’_. Except for the boredom, grabby hands, and sheer volume, it was working out pretty well so far as plans went.

Getting Misfire interested in the substance within the can had been as simple as stripping the label off and handing it to the hyperactive slagger with an order to, “Apply one coat to a clean surface and find something to test it against.” 

The good news was that nothing had dissolved. The _really_ good news was that Misfire was now stuck by the back of his wings to the ceiling of the workshop. 

That would have been surprising if Crankcase hadn’t sort of expected something approximately of that nature to occur. Because, yeah. It was Misfire. Crankcase didn’t know how he was going to get the twit loose again, but he was making an effort to look on the bright side for once: at least the jet was temporarily kept in one place. Next time, he’d just find a gag beforehand. 

Or…well, maybe not. Misfire needed interaction the same way certain other mechs needed their fuel pumps. Accidentally gluing himself to the ceiling hadn’t fazed the jet in the slightest, but his fans rattled worriedly any time Crankcase took a step toward the door. Ignoring the spastic mech got a similar reaction. His voice kept whining higher the longer he was ignored.

The pilot wasn’t a cruel mech. He didn’t leave, despite the temptation to escape. Although he wasn’t a very nice mech, either, so he ignored Misfire’s degeneration into nervous monologue for a few minutes. He kept his head down, out of reach of the jittery ‘Con, and studiously began tracing out the basic framework of a pair of flight goggles. They wouldn’t be anything the Main Supply would produce to be sent out en masse to the troops, but they’d get the job done. Crankcase wasn’t a fashion designer. He was a gets-the-job-done mechanic, and that’s how he liked it. Slapping gilding on life didn’t make any less horrid underneath.

The monologue from above was getting more panicked, and Crankcase could feel air moving against his open head as grabby hands pawed at nothing. Misfire didn’t have much of a mind-to-mouth filter, but he also didn’t have much of an audio-to-mind one. Without anything to distract himself with, he wasn’t able to stop himself from stewing in vivid imaginings of the D.J.D. breaking him into gory pieces. 

Fulcrum hadn’t learned how to direct conversations with Misfire yet, but to be fair, the K-Con hadn’t been with the crew that long. Give him a week more, and Crankcase bet that he’d be directing Misfire’s flighty thoughts around like a pro. He seemed to be able to handle Grimlock and glitched computers with no problem, anyway, and Misfire wasn’t that far off from a combination of the two. 

“I’m making Fulcrum a pair of goggles,” Crankcase deigned to answer after letting the hyperactive flyer verbally writhe for a while. 

Misfire was so happy he was being talked to again, Crankcase had no idea. Er, no, he actually did. Misfire wasn’t exactly adept at concealing his relief. “Goggles! Wonderful! Tell me about the -- what, seriously? Why does Fulcrum need goggles? That’s just lame.” He kicked his feet before letting them hang down straight again. Suspending his weight from his wings only hurt if he thrashed more than his arms. Crankcase had made sure to ask before callously leaving him up there.

The jet might have protested, but he seemed fairly content with the new experience. At least being hung from the ceiling meant he could see what the other ‘Con was doing without getting in the way. 

“He’s a techie, you idiot,” the mechanic explained without looking up. “K-Class reformatting put targeting systems behind his optics, but they put his old optics back in afterward. The glass isn’t even armor-grade.” He shook his head. One close explosion would shatter Fulcrum’s optics in the concussion unless they were protected. Frankly, Crankcase had been shocked that the glass had made it this far, what with the two crash landings the dork had made. Then again, Fulcrum’s initial jump had been done wearing his first set of goggles, and the second one hadn’t been from any great height. “I guess they figured repairing a K-Con after battle probably wasn’t something they’d have to worry about.”

Misfire was quiet for a moment as he turned that terrible little fact of K-Squad life over in his head. Or rather, the fact that K-Squads didn’t have lives, per se. Decepticon grunts were used to being treated like walking, talking weaponry, but they at least rated _repairs_. No matter how awful the cold draft of air across his exposed cranial circuitry felt, Crankcase knew that every Decepticon officer and medic who ever saw him would wonder about repairs. He was certain, in an angry kind of way, that nobody looked at the K-Cons and wondered how to fix them up to survive, even if for just a while longer.

Crankcase’s life sucked, but life was unfair all around. Spinister was a violent moron surgeon. Everyone who met Misfire instantly started looking for the magic trick to shutting him up. Krok’s original squadron wasn’t ever coming back. Fulcrum was a technician stuck with a suicidal altmode and no combat equipment. Flywheels was _dead._

The Scavengers had dropped as low as they could go. They might as well get comfortable; they were going to be here a while. 

After giving everything some solemn consideration, Misfire made an executive decision. “You should make them pink. Bright, neon pink. To contrast with how orange he is.”

“I could leave you up there, you know. Nobody would even come looking until Krok wakes up.”

“They should have little petrorabbit ears on the outside edges.”

There was a certain kind of freedom in hitting rock bottom, really. It started to make a mech fearless of the consequences of his actions. And therefore he was more likely to do fundamentally stupid things. 

He was beginning to understand how Misfire’s mind worked. How frightening -- yet oddly liberating.

“…pink, you say.”

“Got any glitter? They should sparkle. Multicolored sparkles. LEDs and pretty sequins, too. Combat bling for the K-Class among us!”

Crankcase’s lips weren’t twitching up at the corners. Nope, not at all. “I think I might be able to rig something up.”

It’s not like any of them could go any further down, after all. Might as well get some laughter in while they were stuck together down here at the bottom. 

Especially if it came at the rookie Scavenger’s expense.

**[* * * * *]  
**


	17. Prompt 17

**[* * * * *]  
 _“mesmerized”_  
[* * * * *]**

Fulcrum was in the ceiling again. Misfire knew that because Crankcase had run into the K-Class mech fixing the fragging computer again and dutifully called Krok’s comm. frequency. Since Krok was currently knocked out letting his self-repair system catch up a bit, that’d forwarded through the W.A.P.’s communications system to Misfire, who was minding the ship while the pilot-cum-mechanic chased down short #FarTooManyByFarPrimusWeHateThisShip. 

Misfire idly wondered if Fulcrum had caught on yet to the fact that Krok had tagged him with an _’If found, please call provided comm. # frequency’_ marker. The jet had one of his own attached somewhere, he knew, but it didn’t bother him. Belonging to an overly possessive officer kind of beat out a history of officers who couldn’t wait to get rid of him. Fulcrum seemed like a more independent mech than he was, however. The dud-bomb might actually get upset about it. 

Although, explosive frametype stereotype or not, he didn’t seem to have a flashpoint temper. He’d thrown a bit of a snit-fit when presented with his new, highly fashionable (in a subjective sense) flight goggles, but he’d had to work himself up to doing more than muttering insults. Misfire and Crankcase had needed to goad him along with sugary sweet compliments about how pretty he was before the K-Con finally snapped and started yelling. Krok would probably have to write _’Property of the Scavengers’_ across the technician’s chest before Fulcrum did more than sulk about an ID tag. 

Being claimed by Krok was okay, in Misfire’s perspective. No worse than being the social outcast of his old unit, anyway. At least the Scavengers were more agreeable about how he kind of…needed to interact with others. All the time. Or he got jittery and spastic and lost it a little.

Misfire didn’t do so well on his own. 

Speaking of which. If Fulcrum was communing with the W.A.P.’s main computer up in the ceiling, and Crankcase was trying to access the fragging short, and Krok was still unconscious -- that left Misfire at loose ends. He went looking for Spinister, because dumb company was better than no company.

The rotary mech was in the medbay, of course. He’d come online after passing out just fine, but he still stubbornly refused to leave Krok’s side until the officer had recovered. None of the others were surprised by that anymore. Surprisingly, however, Grimlock was in the medbay with him. Actually, that shouldn’t have been surprising, either. It wasn’t like Crankcase and Fulcrum would let _Misfire_ mind the Dynobot anymore after what happened last time. It was just kind of strange -- and insulting, to be honest -- that they thought Spinister could do a better job that he could.

Both warriors were both staring, completely focused, at the wall. 

“Uh…guys?” Slightly unnerved, Misfire waved a hand in front of Spinister’s face. Then Grimlock’s, when that got no response. “Uh. What are you looking at?” His voice rose helplessly at the end, because he could see what they were looking at, and it was a wall. A dingy wall, because the W.A.P. had seen far better days. However, it was just a wall. 

“Wall,” Spinister grunted when Misfire had poked him enough. Grimlock didn’t even appear to notice the small jet pestering him.

“Yeah. I can see that. Why?” He was genuinely curious and found himself looking at the wall with far more interest than it probably deserved.

The two large mechs turned to give him a singularly blank look. “Why not?” Spinister asked after a moment of hard thought. 

Uh. What exactly could he say to that?

He speechlessly looked back at them. They shrugged and went back to wall-watching.

Misfire fidgeted, looking between the door and the two totally absorbed mechs. It was either stay here with company, braindead as they appeared, or go out and try to entertain himself. Alone, because Crankcase would throw tools at his head if he tried to interrupt the mechanic while he worked, and Fulcrum zoned out when he went all tech-head with the computer. 

His wings slicked down, and he sighed hot air mournfully. Wonderful choice. “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,” he mumbled to himself.

Grimlock and Spinister amiably scooted aside to let him sit between them.

****

[* * * * *]


	18. Prompt 18

**[* * * * *]  
 _“coven”_  
[* * * * *]**

Krok hated being alone. 

To put that in perspective, he wasn’t dependent like Misfire. The flighty jet needed to interact with other mechs or his processor would go a little crazy from lack of stimulation. There was a glitch in the interaction software, or so his file stated. Not Krok. Believe it or not, the strategist actually savored peace and quiet. Being alone had been pleasant in the past, when he hoarded his precious few minutes of free time to research military history or indulge in some light reading. Being alone had carried the naughty overtones of dodging responsibility for a stolen moment on his own.

Now, however, the overtone was one of fear that his absent mechs would go missing permanently. 

Krok did not enjoy being alone anymore.

Also, being alone meant that his unit wasn’t with him. As in, he wasn’t right there supervising them. That seemed kind of obvious, but subtract Krok from the Scavengers’ midst, and things went unexpectedly wonky. They were so predictable about it that he really couldn’t be surprised about it anymore, really. Although that didn’t stop him from worrying. In fact, it kind of made it worse knowing that they consistently had a way of making his absence far more of an issue than it really should be.

About any variety of issue, as well. The unpredictable part of the Scavengers’ predictability was how they could somehow manage to turn _anything_ into trouble. Krok thought himself a patient mech, but there were times he wanted to weld them all to the nearest immobile object just so he’d know, _for certain_ , where they were at any given moment. Corralling them all, safe and doing absolutely nothing but sitting in one place, sounded wonderful. It was an incredibly tempting idea.

Except that he knew his dumbaft collection of idiot subordinates. They’d somehow get whatever he welded them to mobile while his back was turned, or it would come alive on its own. Then he’d still have to pry them out of whatever horrible situation they fell into next. 

Okay, so maybe Krok was overreacting. A little. Maybe. Less than he wished he was.

To be fair, it wasn’t like his Scavengers didn’t _try_ to stay out of trouble. Nobody in their right mind would actively attempt half the stuff that ended up happening to them. But…it was as if the unit was some sort of cult of bad luck. It didn’t matter how safe they thought themselves. Inevitably, something went wrong. 

Krok wasn’t being paranoid about keeping an optic on his mechs when mundane chores were potential life-threatening hazards. For Primus’ sake, Flywheels and Crankcase had once gotten stuck in the disposal chute while trying to empty it out. They’d gone from swearing at a clogged tube to screaming for help as the entire outer hatch system malfunctioned and tried to suck them out into space. 

Hey, the strategist was no stranger to unlucky situations. Hello, missing unit? Decepticon Justice Division trying to kill his current group of yahoos? Sound familiar, here? But he at least could claim that he was a fairly normal guy under normal circumstances. The other Scavengers -- well. Not so much. Spinister alone was a walking disaster area waiting to happen. Add in Crankcase and Fulcrum, and a regular officer would probably be desperate for a bit of privacy just to break down and sob in it. 

Krok, on the other hand, sighed and attempted to keep at least one of his mechs with him at all times. That way he could try to contain the chaos when it happened. 

Because it would. He knew it would. It was only a matter of time. He was braced for it, and the _shooop_ of the medbay door opening informed him that the wait was over. Letting the unit go off without him when he was laid up like this meant that Misfire, who was the unit’s _talking_ disaster, had to come and find him when the inevitable happened. Which it had, and now Misfire was here to tell him aaaaaall about it. 

Joy.

“Heh. So, uh, Krok. About those last rite thingies for Flywheels?” That was never a tone of voice he wanted a report in. Or a report in any tone on this topic, really. Krok turned toward the source of things he didn’t want to hear and attempted to incinerate it via invisible laserbeams. “Good news and bad news on that. Uh.” Vents coughed uncomfortably as the officer tried to glare harder. “...right. You should probably sit down for this.”

Krok sat down. It wasn’t so much obedience to Misfire’s whims or anticipation of stunning news. It was more that good news/bad news reports from Misfire were vast, muddled dumps of vaguely alarming information. This would probably take a while to sort through, and Krok’s knees were still prone to giving out as his self-repair system continued to send him crashing at random.

Spinister had assured him the power drain would stop soon as the operations closed off the worst damage and rerouted the affected systems, but the surgeon had needed a break from repairs. There was only so much finicky work the violent medic could do before wanting to just blow something up. Krok’s preference was that the ‘something’ in question not be his head. So he’d sent Spinister off with the others to do manual labor. 

Manual labor was sufficiently mindless that he’d been cautiously optimistic. The four mechs should be able to stay out of danger for a few hours without him hovering over them. Fulcrum and Crankcase could keep Misfire and Spinister in line doing heavy lifting and holding things for them, right? Harmless repairwork. Nobody was even going out onto the W.A.P.’s hull! 

...Krok should have known better than to let them out of audio range. He’d known that it was a Bad Idea, but he couldn’t keep them in the medbay with him forever. 

Not until he found something sufficiently immobile, anyway.

He made a ‘get on with it’ gesture in the jet’s direction. Not that he really wanted to hear about how Misfire had somehow screwed up carrying out a religious rite, but there was no point in delaying hearing about his subordinate’s latest bout of fraggotry. It probably included sacrilege, this round. Knowing the Scavengers’ luck lately, the NeoPrimalists would turn out to be a warlike sect dedicated to hunting down those who failed to fulfill their believers’ last rites. If he was going to be persecuted by an obscure religion because of Misfire’s lack of competency, Krok would rather know about it in advance.

“Right,” Misfire repeated. He sounded like he was steeling himself to make his report. “So. I found an infocube in Flywheels’ bunk, and it had lots of data about stuff. A bunch of different stuff.”

“Not all NeoPrimalist information?” Krok asked carefully, because it seemed like the religious stuff would be fairly obvious. Wouldn’t it?

There was a rustle of shrugging from the jet. The officer was getting better on relying on just his proximity sensors, and that sort of seemed like a helpless spreading of hands. Unless Misfire had grown another set of limbs. “No idea. I thought so at first, but the data’s corrupted. Fulcrum got the W.A.P.’s computer to read it, but the cube itself got napped on by Grimsy. Me and Crankcase had to lift his head before Fulcrum could dig it out. There’s a whole bunch of scrambled files, and the index is either in a secret Neo-What’sit language, or it’s just that corrupted. We, um, decided that we should just start with the smallest file and do them all.”

“’We’?” The question came out sharply, but not because Misfire had included the others in the assignment. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Teamwork activity built strong units, after all. Krok had no right to get upset over the other three ‘Cons getting involved. He hadn’t told the jet to complete Flywheels’ last rites on his own. 

He still couldn’t help but growl a bit over the decision, because the decision had been made without consulting him. Grunts should consult their officer. Grunts weren’t supposed to make _decisions._

Krok knew exactly why these particular grunts had, however, and he knew he shouldn’t be getting annoyed. Really, he shouldn’t. When a Decepticon unit went out of its way not to disturb their recuperating officer -- instead of, say, assassinating him -- the officer should be grateful, not irritated. 

That didn’t make this officer feel any less unneeded and grumpy about it.

Misfire seemed to sense his ire, possible because of the optic-less glare still searing his wings. “I needed more people!” he rushed to tell his peeved officer. “Honest! Group management was right in the instructions! Er, well, in some of them, but we weren’t sure which files the sacrificial instructions applied to, so we kinda tried to cover all our bases on that. We substituted one of Flywheels’ knees because, uh, this was supposed to a last rite anyway, so we voted that he should be the only dead guy present. Well, **I** said we could probably use Crankcase and just not go through with the last two or three steps in the sacrifice.” The jet blew out a gust of air, exasperated by this. “It’s not like we could have done that with his spark casing even if we had. No, okay, so Spinister said he might be able to with a good set of clamps and a table saw, but Fulcrum was already taking up most of the engine room’s floor with his stupid diagram -- oh, wait, I haven’t told you about that yet!” 

The corresponding gush of excitement over telling Krok about this new thing made Misfire chatter yet faster. Krok was, by now, bent over cradling his poor aching head in his hands. Obviously that was a cue for the jet to start gesturing wildly to try and convey the awesomeness of his report, which accomplished nothing but provide his commander with a brisk breeze to cool his overheated processors. How considerate of him.

“As part of the group management stuff, we were supposed to have a ‘high priest,’ whatever that actually means, so we made the loser do it because he used to be a project manager anyway, right? And that chin, wow! The power of the chin compelled us to elect him leader. Plus, it involved figuring out how to draw the weird-aft diagram that was in one of the bigger folder files, and he’s a tech-head, so yeah, natural fit. Frag if any of the rest of us are any good at drawing five-armed stars, much less figuring out which direction every pointy bit is supposed to go in, because apparently that slag’s important in Neo-Whatever’s religiosity rite stuff. Last rites. Things about dead people. Flywheels, I mean. The dead guy we did a rite -- rites? Rituals? Things. For. Um.” 

The obnoxious voice tormenting the Decepticon officer hunched over the berth trailed off momentarily. Misfire had successfully managed to confuse himself. It consistently amazed Krok that the flyer could remember the smallest details of the inconsequential things he endlessly rambled on about, yet couldn’t remember significant facts like the name of the religion he’d evidently spent the last three hours mutilating with a complete lack of respect. 

Not that Misfire ever let such things stop him for long. The chatter picked back up, and Krok groaned quietly to himself. Of course it wasn’t over.

“He ended up using one of Spinny’s dissection scissors to etch it on the floor -- don’t die, by the way, Spinister’s really worried about how he’ll take you apart if you die now because that thing’s blades really got dulled; seriously, this is an issue, he made us all promise not to die until he can sharpen them again -- and he ran out of room on the floor so he went all the way up the side of the engine block and partway onto the ceiling. He had to stand on Spinister’s shoulders to finish it. Which was a good thing, all told, but I haven’t told that yet so I’ll just tell you now to not be mad that we carved on your ship. It’s not like the W.A.P. wasn’t a chunk of refuse before we made it into the traveling NeoSomethingorother temple and ritual show -- no sacrifice included -- but I’m just saying? Don’t be surprised by the new artwork everywhere. And we taught Spinister to do a little ritual dance, too, but that’s probably less surprising.”

Sadly, yes. Krok wondered what his life was, that religious graffiti would surprise him more than seeing his unit’s most dangerous warrior boogie down.

Misfire plowed onward because his CO wasn’t shooting at him and screaming, _“Shut up!”_ From his perspective, that meant he could keep reporting. 

This perspective might have possibly contributed to why he’d been transferred so very often before landing with the Scavengers, but the jet wasn’t one for introspection. Or letting explicitly spelled-out _‘Reason For Transfer’_ entries on his personnel file bother him. Although, Krok wearily reflected, it also explained Misfire’s occasional, hurriedly glazed over references to past officers attempting to beat the talkativeness out of him.

His current, beating-disinclined officer sometimes thought Misfire talked so much because the flighty jet rather liked him in comparison to past, beating-inclined officers. It seemed kind of a self-defeating form of affection, but...well, it was nice to be appreciated every once and awhile. While drowning in a flood of nonsense babble, but appreciated nonetheless. 

“Meanwhile, me and Cranky were supposed to be ‘coveners’ -- you know, plural? See? I needed someone else to help! -- so we sort of took those roles and divvied up the parts. Teamwork exercise!” He sounded so proud of himself, like he expected Krok to commend his initiative or something. In reality, Krok was listening with a growing sense of apprehension. “I did all the prayers myself, even the ones that were supposed to be call and response ones, and frag, my vocalizer hurts now because there was one that was supposed to have three parts, and I did different voices for each part and that strained something, I swear.” Not enough to stop him from talking, of course. “Crankcase did the singing and chanting, and sir. Sir? Sir, this is really important. Krok, are you listening?” 

Krok’s proximity sensors registered the flyer waving his arms again, but this time it seemed to be from a massive sense of urgency not even Misfire’s abused voice could adequately convey. The officer tensed, dreading the bad news. “Krok, sir, you gotta trust me on this. Order Crankcase to never sing again. On pain of, uh, pain. Or something. Because Tarn’s got nothing on him. Really. I’d have shot him if I could -- “ an embarrassed cough, “ -- you know. Hit him. Um. There’s a hole in the door of the engine room, sooooo yeah. Don’t be surprised by that, either.”

False alarm. Tense shoulders relaxed again. “You shot at Crankcase?” Krok interjected, mostly to give his dread time to die away while his scrambled processor organized the manic flow of information. He didn’t care that much about Misfire shooting at someone. The results of that were always the same.

“Just trust me, Krok. The singing, it was -- my audios hurt. Anyway, Fulcrum asked me to do it, and I was supposed to be following his orders -- as high priest! As high priest! Stop looking at me like that!”

Krok wordlessly (and optic-lessly) continued glaring.

“I had to obey his orders! It’s in the manual!” His wayward subordinate verbally squirmed under that glare. “At least, we think it was the manual. We don’t really know, you know? There was a lot of weird stuff in that infocube that didn’t make any sense, and we had to improvise a lot between corrupted data and, er, not having things we needed on hand. I mean, the loser -- uh, the high priest -- was supposed to draw the diagram in white calcite, but all we had was Spinister’s scissors, so we can’t erase it like we were supposed to -- but that’s good! Really! We think? Maybe? -- and we were supposed to mark ourselves up in reactive elements that’d evaporate to gas in patterns of blue and green, but frag. Flywheels didn’t bring **anything** like that, and we looked! Grimsy might’ve eaten them, though, so who knows. Right, where was I -- oh, yeah, so Crankcase opened up the engine to grab a handful of grease, and we kinda doodled on each other with that. It looked sort of similar to the pictures? I think we did okay. I mean, not that we’d know, but Fulcrum said if we went after him with engine grease he’d put a hex on us, and none of us know if he was joking or not.”

That sounded oddly like Misfire was taking this religious hocus-pocus a bit too far. No, all of this sounded like the whole unit had taken the NeoPrimalist manual as an excuse to act like idiots away from his direct supervision. Hexes and diagrams and ‘high priest’ Fulcrum _usurping Krok’s command_.

Some of the officer’s very possessive, most Decepticonly wrath must have seeped through the bandages. Misfire’s vents hitched, and his voice hiked a tad higher as if forced cheer would make everything better. 

“Okay, so, you following all of this so far? Because by the time me and Crankcase and Spinny finished praying and singing and dancing and whatnot, Fulcrum got his slagging diagram finished. And then we had to all stand where he put us -- asked us to stand! He **asked** us to stand, um, in very specific places like a -- a -- comrade! Friend! Like a friend would! Very friendly, Fulcrum!” 

The jet’s voice had gone all funny and strangely panicked. Krok didn’t know why. Just because he was clenching his hands so hard the fresh welds on his knuckle joints had split didn’t mean he was going to go find the backstabbing little K-Con and make that sacrifice NeoPrimalist last rites apparently called for.

“The chin made us do it,” Misfire offered meekly, as if trying to appease him. It might have had something to do with the way the officer had slowly risen to his feet and taken one ominous step forward. “We were weak. It was a temporary thing. Overcome by the power of religion. Should I start running?”

Krok forced himself to in-vent deeply. This was not the time to create a rift in the ranks. Fulcrum’s presumptuous assumption of power needed to be dealt with swiftly and firmly, but not in front of the other mechs in the unit. Krok would wait. He was patient. He would not let his composure be rattled by a coward. 

“Continue,” he grated out after a moment longer.

“Uh. Right.” There are an audible swallow, but Misfire rushed on. The better to get everything out and over with. “So Fulcrum uhh...stood in the center of the drawing and read a whole bunch of gibberish that didn’t make any sense while we all sang this really inane song -- my audios are never going to recover, by the way -- and the diagram thing started fragging **glowing** \-- honest to Primus, sir, we all saw it! -- and then the whole room kind of whited out.” There was an odd hesitation in the hurried flow of words. “And then the engine introduced itself as the Dark Lord and demanded to know why we’d summoned it.”

Well.

That…was an effective way to distract Krok from his building rage.

“What.”

Misfire seemed uncharacteristically uncertain, either from what he was reporting or his commanding officer’s utterly blank reaction to the report. “Yeeeeeah. Er, the **good** news is that the, um, ‘Dark Lord’ seems happy that we’re on our way to Cybertron. He’s kinda agreed to stay in the engine until we get there. We’re kind of hoping that we can find a **real** Neothingie high priest before it realizes we can’t erase the diagram and release it for its ‘Reign of Darkness and Undead Revenge upon the Children of Primus’ Light’ -- I kid you not, you can actually hear it capitalizing letters when this thing talks, it’s amazing.”

“You summoned a NeoPrimalist Dark Lord into the W.A.P.’s engine?” Krok summed up carefully, having staggered back and sat down on the berth again as his knees decided they had better things to do than support his weight. His voice was flat and most unamused. Was this some kind of joke the Scavengers were playing on the officer? “And this is the good news.” 

“Comparatively? Sure.” Misfire had never sounded more solemn. One of Krok’s optics had begun functioning enough to give a startled blink behind the bandages. Oh. That didn’t sound good at all. “Sir, this isn’t just bad news. This is the worst possible news. I’m serious.” The flyer took a step toward the berth, risking coming close enough to appeal directly to his CO. “Crankcase wants to do it **again**. He says possession by a Dark Lord’s improved fuel efficiency by 13%.” His hands came up and clutched at Krok’s arm, and he shook the officer lightly. “I can’t listen to him sing again, I just can’t!”

Krok stared blindly at nothing, thinking morosely that sometimes? Sometimes, being alone was the better option.

**[* * * * *]  
**


	19. Prompt 19

**[* * * * *]  
 _Task: “Take your favorite Halloween horror movie monster (vampires, Frankenstein's monster, zombies, witches, etc) and create a Transformer-ized version.”_  
[* * * * *]**

The thing about Decepticon units was that they were full of _Decepticons._ Decepticons didn’t really do ‘forgive and forget.’ Sometimes they’d do one or the other, but usually there were mitigating circumstances involved. Like amnesia. Or death. Or both, if Styx and her phalanx of eager-to-experiment scientists were involved.

So while Fulcrum was a convicted coward and really just a glorified techie who didn’t even have a weapon now that his altmode had been diffused, he was still a Decepticon. He was an easy-going mech, yeah, but he wasn’t an Autobot. Although he joked along and got over Crankcase and Misfire’s prank soon enough, the image captures of him being Grimlock’s recharge cuddle-buddy left him grinding his teeth. The bedazzled goggles had him silently fuming. The image capture of him _wearing_ the fragging things -- because Crankcase utterly refused to make him another pair -- was the last straw. 

It wasn’t so much the fact that Crankcase and Misfire took so much delight in the picture so much as the fact that they kept messing with it. It got pasted everywhere they could managed to hang it up without getting caught in the act. Fulcrum found it was the new icon-header for the communications console, which he promptly disabled _just in case_ they actually did come across another Decepticon ship and Krok wanted to transmit something. He simply could not process the humiliation of any comm. from the W.A.P. having his face plastered on it, framed by pink goggles and tiny sparkly petrorabbit ears. 

But it was the picture pasted over the hole in the engine room door that snapped the mild-mannered K-Con’s temper at long last. One of the two pranksters had mashed the image capture into the background of a picture of a K-Squad falling in altmode, except the bombs were all wearing multicolored sets of flight goggles. The caption read, _”Fly, my pretties! Fly!”_

K-Class jokes were lousy to begin with, but the humor soured bitterly when told to a K-Con reformat survivor. Fulcrum had been very, very not happy with Crankcase and Misfire when he found that picture.

They knew they’d gone too far, but they hadn’t been able to help themselves. It’d just been too good to pass up. Now the consequences loomed. Technicians weren’t much in the physical arena, but Fulcrum was slagging _smart_. They could beat him up, but they were well aware that he could out-think them. Misfire and Crankcase walked careful. 

They knew that somewhere, somehow, Fulcrum was going to get them back. Krok could give his bizarre bandaged glare all he wanted; Fulcrum was going to _get_ them. His innate Decepticonness demanded revenge. Fulcrum knew that they knew he was out for revenge; they knew that he knew they knew; Krok knew that they all knew; even Spinister had an inkling that he knew something. No wounded superior officer was going to stand in the little techie’s way. The K-Class were notorious for their lack of fear, and Fulcrum was just mad enough to life up to the reputation for once. 

Therefore, Krok was not entirely surprised to open the medbay door to screaming. He heaved an irritated sigh tempered by relief, in fact, because at least the wait was over with.

Well, it’d be over with once Crankcase and Misfire figured out that Flywheels’s chewed-up body was not actually riding Grimlock after them, decapitated head in hand. From the volume of the screaming and how fast they were running, reality might take a while to catch up to them.

**[* * * * *]  
**


	20. Prompt 20

**[* * * * *]  
 _“chained”_  
[* * * * *]**

The grunt-bunks had been made to hold 24 mechs before Grimlock’s nesting renovated the room to hold, well, one. And that one was a Dynobot. 

Now, while the massive Autobot seemed to like curling up around a Decepticon or two when he recharged, pride had everyone avoiding the grunt-bunks. Unless nobody was looking. Ahem. 

Because the big tough Decepticon warriors -- and tag-along K-Class technician -- weren’t going to admit out loud that Grimlock was a surprisingly comfortable bunkmate. There was something incredibly _nice_ about someone being so happy with a mech’s company that he purred his engine. Not to mention that the dumb oaf radiated heat like a walking furnace, which was why Spinister kept locking him in the medbay whenever Fulcrum went chin-to-console with the W.A.P.’s glitchy main computer. Having life support cut out for brief periods of time wouldn’t kill the Scavengers, but the first thing that went down was temperature control. Having Grimlock wrapped around a mech like dangerous, affectionate, oddly-shaped insulation kept the ice from forming. 

In any case, with the grunt-bunks out of the picture, that left the officers’ quarters. There were technically two rooms for four officers, but one of those officers was the captain, and therefore the captain got a private room. The second room had three bunks for the remaining officers. Krok was willing to surrender that unused room to his displaced soldiers, but he sternly ordered them to stay out of the captain’s quarters. He had claimed very few of the privileges of Decepticon rank from his misfit unit, but this one he stood firm on. He had the captain’s room, and he didn’t intend to share.

Leaving three berths to be shared among four soldiers. This would not do. 

Hey, c’mon. What Krok didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right? And since he was practically living in the medbay until his self-repair stopped crashing him, Misfire and Fulcrum figured that they could just ‘borrow’ the extra berth for a while. Crankcase wouldn’t say anything to their laid-up commander, even though the grouchy pilot gave them a dour glare telling them what he thought about their stupid scheme. That wasn’t much different than how he glared at them for existing, so they didn’t pay him much mind.

However, Misfire and Fulcrum froze into statues with identical stressed system-whines when they managed to jimmy the lock on the door. Turned out that the room the captain was supposed to recharge in had an attached office complete with desk and disciplinary rack. A full disciplinary rack. 

Uh…no sharing. Got it. 

They quietly relocked the door and went back to bickering over who got a berth and who had to be Grimlock’s cuddle-buddy that night. 

The W.A.P. was a pretty small ship, overall. Shabby, small, and really only meant to hold a maximum of 30 mechs. The other Scavengers knew about the 28 berth-limit because, with the exception of Spinister, they could do basic math. 24 grunt-bunks plus four officer bunks equaled 28 berths. Ta-daa. 

Fulcrum knew about the two additional personnel slots because he was on speaking terms with the _Weak Anthropic Principle_ ’s computer. He’d been coaxing it back into working condition since he’d come on board, sometimes with more cursing and kicking than coaxing. It, in turn, was grudgingly handing over information about the ship. For instance, he now knew that the reason the co-pilot’s chair was missing from the bridge was because it had been welded to the ship’s hull. For some reason known only to whoever had messed with the original ship schematics, that particular bit of redesign had been entered into the ship’s maintenance log as an ‘auxiliary gunner station.’

“I don’t get it,” Crankcase had said when Fulcrum told him about it. “There’s no gun mount out there.”

“Just a chair?” Weird. “Maybe whoever got ahold of the W.A.P. before Krok did stripped it off. But it should have been entered in the log, if that were true.” Lazy fraggers probably just hadn’t bothered updating it when they took anything they could reuse or profit from. If it’d been Fulcrum’s decision, he’d have junked the whole ship to sell for parts instead of keeping it intact. 

“Yeah. There’d be bolt marks on the hull where it was taken off, too.” The larger Decepticon’s cracked visor squinted thoughtfully. “Although…yeah, okay. I get it.”

Fulcrum had given the pilot a curious look. “What?”

He’d shrugged. “Gunner station, not gunnery station. I’d kind of wondered why the buckle releases were placed so strange.” The technician’s confusion must have shown, because Crankcase had actually smirked. “Anybody strapped into that chair wasn’t getting loose without someone else untying them.”

It only took a second’s thought to put that together. “Oh,” Fulcrum had said most eloquently. “Cheap captain, you think?” That was both a grim and sadly efficient solution. Couldn’t afford to arm the ship? Then arm a mech and put him out there to shoot.

The smirk had widened. It’d been a day for the ages. Someone should have marked it down in history: Crankcase looking happy. “Or just one really unpopular grunt. Hey, Misfire!”

The jet had ducked out from under the console he’d been testing for electrical shorts and thrown a screw at the evilly grinning pilot. It’d missed, of course. “No! I don’t want to go out on the hull!” He’d scrunched back under, muttering to himself as his wings snagged.

“He’d probably shoot the ship on accident,” Fulcrum had said sagely.

“Good point.”

“Hey!”

“Yeah?” Dual innocent smiles. 

One grumpy jet. “…shut up.”

So the computer was playing nice -- for now -- and Fulcrum had been pulling information out of it. Some of it was puzzling and most of it was glitched or obsolete, but then there was the fact that there were two additional berth slots onboard the ship. Here the Scavengers were fighting over the three bunks in the officers’ quarters, and there were two extras available! Sure, they weren’t padded or automated, but neither was Grimlock.

Instead of telling the others about the on-station berths down in the engine room, he just sneaked away when their backs were turned. That was a harder task than it sounded, since the whole blasted unit was practically living in each others’ armor these days. There was being a close-knit unit, and then there was being trapped onboard a ship with this particular crew. As soon as he’d escaped the room, Misfire immediately began calling for him. He put up a _’Fragging Computer!!’_ message on the unit frequency and hoped they’d assume he was busy linked into the computer somewhere yet again.

Then he went down to the engine room and tested the walls until he found the catches himself. The hinges on the first one had rusted it shut into the wall, but the other plopped down after some regreasing. Triumph!

“Who Disturbs the Dark Lord?” boomed out of the engine while he looked for something to prop the berth up level. The fold-out support legs had gone missing, evidently. 

“Just your humble servant, the high priest,” Fulcrum said absently, most of his attention on the plugs he was carefully stacking. He eased the berth edge down on the stack and wiggled it to see if it’d support the weight. “Mind if I sleep here, your Darkness?”

The Dark Lord seemed mildly taken aback by being addressed so casually, but the Dark Lord itself seemed to spend most of its time asleep. Well, it claimed it was _“in contemplation”_ , but Misfire had walked by the engine room door and heard a droning buzz that sounded an awful lot like an engine trying to snore. Dark Lords apparently needed their beauty sleep. “Very well. You shall be Permitted to Bask in my Glorious Presence.”

“Mhmm. Thanks.” Bask? Whatever. Dark Lord roommate or not, he was going to get in a decent recharge without Grimlock pawing on the door or Spinister flopping on top of him for once. 

It was nice being alone (…sort of), for once. The Scavengers were a good bunch of ‘Cons, but they were a bit, uh, rambunctious. Fulcrum had gone from being an isolated tech-head in charge of a cyber-forming project, to a solitary prisoner in a cell condemned to die, to sitting alone with his thoughts while waiting to jump to his explosive death. Suddenly being stuck into the middle of a gregarious group of Decepticons always up in each other’s business was a bit much for him. They were so…touchy. And persistent. Get away from one, and the others swarmed him. If it wasn’t Krok wanting to _talk_ to him -- which was getting harder to dodge, because eventually the W.A.P. either had to explode or run out of vital repairs -- it was Spinister trying to fix him or one of the other two needing his help Right Now, No Really, Right This Second Fulcrum, Oh Primus We’re All Gonna Diiiiiieeee.

To be fair to Crankcase’s dignity, it was usually Misfire adding that last bit on. 

The K-Class Decepticon stretched out on the berth and reveled in the change of pace. It wasn’t that he didn’t _like_ Misfire’s constant chatter, or Spinister’s open hostility toward anything that moved, or the never-ending feeling of falling from one minor emergency into another. Er, okay, so putting it that way, it really didn’t make much sense that he actually kind of _did_ like life with the Scavengers. Chopped up into separate bits, he didn’t. It was just that…glommed altogether, those separate bits made a bizarrely enjoyable life. And separated out, the individual tiresome parts still beat out his pathetic farce of a life before the Scavengers. 

That didn’t say much about his life even before Styx, when he thought about it that way. He stuffed those thoughts into the back of his head where all the other things he couldn’t change about his past lurked.

Long story short, life aboard the W.A.P. wasn’t exactly restful. He laid back on the berth and sighed, stretching for the sheer pleasure of being able to do so without hitting a fellow Decepticon. This? This tiny bit of privacy among all the hectic activity was going to be his little secret. Getting away from the constant socializing for a while was pleasant. 

The engine thrummed the comforting background noise of space travel and eldritch chanting, and Fulcrum drifted offline smiling.

Recharge lasted right up until a certain someone did a paranoid check on ‘his’ unit and came up one grunt short. 

The slim, bandage-wrapped K-Con came back online to the pointed _click_ of a vocalizer being reset. He warily brought his optics on to see a dim silhouette of a broad-shouldered mech towering over him, arms folded imposingly. Not so imposingly, Krok’s head was a blocky, irregular shape from the sheer amount of repair nanite-culture bandages wrapped around it. 

Fortunately for intimidation purposes, the K-Class techie was a total wuss and looked spooked anyway. “Uh, hi.”

“Hello, Fulcrum,” Krok said, low and level. “Interesting computer you’re in here fixing.”

Oops. Caught. 

Too little, too late, the techie guiltily switched off his away-message on the unit frequency. 

“Who dares -- “

“Not **now** ,” the officer cut off the Dark Lord firmly, and Fulcrum braced himself for a Dark Lord temper tantrum. They’d trapped the thing in the engine, but it could fling tools and manifest funky light shows when angered. Spinister thought it was the best entertainment around. Krok just waved a hand dismissively at the engine, however, impatiently searching for the right words. “Temple politics,” he settled on, then added because every ‘Con officer knew when and how to kiss aft, “my lord.”

The booming voice seemed pleased by the excuse. “Ahhh. Proceed.”

Authority Figure attention, the kind no grunt wanted, returned like a targeting laser to the technician still laying on the berth in front of him. “I intend to.”

The smaller Decepticon couldn’t figure out what that tone of voice was supposed to convey. Anger that he’d snuck off? Annoyance at the misleading comm. frequency message? Technically, he hadn’t shunted himself off the frequency entirely, which -- probably wasn’t an excuse that’d fly real well right now. Was Krok irritated that he hadn’t told the rest of the crew about the spare berths? Was this a reprimand for trying to evade the strategist’s strange herding instinct? 

Now that he knew Krok’s squadron wasn’t coming back, however that had happened, Fulcrum sort of understood his new CO’s need to compulsively keep his makeshift unit clustered close. The K-Con hadn’t been able to get any details out of Crankcase or Misfire, but whatever had happened had left Krok on his own. That left a mech scarred, somewhat, even if the scars were only mental. Krok seemed like a pretty loyal mech. Losing his squad must have been a blow.

So the officer was intently scraping together a new unit out of the paltry leftovers the Decepticons had abandoned in this sector, and like the Pit was he letting the new group out of his _sight_. Even if one or two members seemed to like wandering off. That just meant he’d have to dig out the heavy-duty restraint methods.

Fulcrum tried out a smile. It looked unintentionally timid. He honestly wasn’t sure Krok could even see it. The strategist didn’t seem to be having any trouble getting around the ship, but Spinister still claimed he was blind until self-repair got the officer’s optical sensors working again. Misfire and Crankcase both swore that wasn’t true. Something about being glared at through the bandages.

The technician had the feeling that they were referring to a high-powered version of the Look. The Look, he knew about already. Krok didn’t need optics to give him that Look. It was the reason he’d been single-mindedly avoiding any and all talks his new commander kept trying to trap him into. 

Evasion didn’t seem like an option, here. Fulcrum had effectively cornered himself in the engine room, unless he could somehow develop teleportation mods in the next few seconds and escape that way. Despite his sudden silent praying to whoever listened to K-Cons (he spared a prayer to the Dark Lord, because one never knew), that wasn’t likely. 

Time to mech up and get this over with. “Is there, uh, a problem?” Military protocol gave him a cautionary boot in the back of the cortex, and he tacked on, “Sir?”

A long moment more of silence, apparently just to remind the smaller mech that, hey, wounded Krok might be, but he could still use any and all of those disciplinary tools up in the captain’s quarters on him. And furthermore, maybe he should. Remember that whole discussion about what a complete and total waste of metal Fulcrum was? Fulcrum surely did. Or at least that was how Fulcrum himself remembered the frigid silence after he admitted to abandoning the mechs he’d once been responsible for. 

Krok hadn’t actually _commented_ on the fact that the techie had earned his conviction of cowardice, but some things could be easily inferred from his chilly, hostile silence on the subject. Commentary wasn’t all that necessary when Fulcrum’s imagination filled in any and all castigation he thought he deserved. He’d been determinedly avoiding being alone with Krok every since for fear of more of that silence and what his mind inevitably turned to in it. Krok hadn’t brought it up, but the K-Con could swear that the topic was hovering, just waiting to be spoken about again. 

Hence, undignified fleeing to do repairs the moment it even looked like the other Scavengers were going to leave him alone with their commander. Because nothing ground shame and rust into a wounded ego like being under the command of an officer who was everything he’d wholly failed to be. 

Truthfully, his CO didn’t seem _angry_ with him anymore. Fulcrum didn’t quite know what to make of that. Forgiveness seemed unduly optimistic. The blatant disapproval and distaste had tapered off to a vague stiffness by the next time Fulcrum had been pushed into the medbay by Spinister, but it was really hard to forget that he was really just a technician with a defused bomb for an altmode. Krok was a warrior who could punch him out, even blinded. 

If he was blinded. Which Fulcrum was doubting more and more. Because -- yeah. The Look was back. 

“You tell me,” Krok said after a sufficiently intimidating period of time. “We going to have a problem, **high priest**?” 

Confusion blunted the edge of the K-Class mech’s growing fear. What the frag was the strategist calling him that for? The only reason he’d gotten stuck as the stupid ‘high priest’ was because nobody else wanted to work out how to draw the diagram. “Uh…no? I mean, I don’t think so. A-are we?”

The officer standing over him cocked his swaddled head to the side inquisitively. “What were you before Styx?” he prodded, an edge of acidic goading sharpening his voice. “You said you were the head of a project, I believe?”

“Yeah. I was the project manager for the cyber-forming on -- “ It clicked suddenly, and Fulcrum stopped mid-explanation. 

Krok calling him high priest. Misfire’s sudden snarking insolence every time the techie asked him for help. The stupid goggles and how Crankcase refused to even make them a less obnoxious color no matter how Fulcrum tried to pressure him. The weird sense that the other three Scavengers been bumbling between him and Krok for a couple days now, always touching and grabbing and never, ever leaving him by himself. It hadn’t been obviously different than how they were normally, not really, but now looking back at how smothered he’d felt and just why he’d been so relieved to escape for a few hours alone…

 _Oh_. 

“Krok, sir, the first they did was demote me when they caught me,” he said, humble and abruptly respectful. The _last_ thing he wanted was to make Krok think he was challenging the strategist’s authority! “They stripped me of rank before I even went on trial.”

Slag him, he knew he should have made Misfire be high priest. And kept his chin to himself when Crankcase and Misfire started their arguing. They’d given him joint odd looks when he told them to cram it, but he hadn’t thought about the weirdness of the unit rookie playing referee while Krok was laid up. It was just that, well, once a mech got in the habit of being in charge, it was a hard habit to break. Aaaaand now that habit was coming back to bite him in the aft. 

He wasn’t an officer any more. The W.A.P. wasn’t his project. He had exactly as much influence as this heavily-armed Decepticon allowed him, and the fact was that Krok had allowed him absolutely none. He’d just sort of absentmindedly helped himself to the attitude without a rank hash-mark to back him up. Oops. Stupid, stupid Fulcrum.

“How many mechs did you command?” his injured commander demanded, obviously just a little defensive. 

Justifiably so. Under any other circumstances, in any other unit, with any other _officer_ , Fulcrum would already be prostrate on the floor with a gun digging into the back of his helm as Krok coldly reclaimed the power that the ex-project manager had been steadily -- if not consciously -- amassing. From a purely Decepticon standpoint, the technician had been ordering around _his mechs_ without permission. Krok was most displeased.

Fortunately for Fulcrum’s unstable nerves, his CO was prone to believing the best of his subordinates. It was difficult to imagine Fulcrum as the type to stab him the back. The techie just didn’t have the bearings for power-grabs. It’d helped that Misfire, Crankcase, and Spinister had spent the last two days being insolent, disobedient coworkers instead of following Fulcrum tamely. Their buddy-buddy comradie been frustrating the slag out of Fulcrum; half a week of ever-so-gradually falling into an officer/subordinates pattern had reversed overnight. They’d been oppressively clingy and friendlier than ever, and he hadn’t understood what had changed.

What had changed was Krok getting out of the medbay at long last. The three ‘Cons had gravitated toward someone who exuded authority while he’d been laid up, but now that their commander was out and about more often, Fulcrum was back to being just another one of the grunts. The newbie, at that.

The K-Con hadn’t objected to being shoved back to the bottom of the pecking order. He’d just been bewildered by the abrupt drop. 

He’d been weaseling out of being stuck anywhere alone with his commander since Clemency, but that hadn’t stopped Krok from watching him. That sounded creepy and probably was, but it was what good officers did. Observational skills were a must among Decepticon officers who didn’t want to get sniped. The observations were what was keeping Fulcrum’s face out of the floor right now. Krok’s anger had been tamped down enough from watching the unassuming little mech’s behavior to make this little encounter official censure, not a beatdown. 

Not that Krok didn’t intend to scare the bolts off the smaller ‘Con either way.

All of which Fulcrum understood, in a way. He’d been an officer, after all. The professionals and mundane workers in his area of expertise hadn’t brought out the same amount of violence, but the theories of Decepticon power struggles and personnel management still applied. He looked back his gradual assumption of power throughout the past week and swallowed hard, optics flicking worriedly to his commander’s fists. 

He sat up slowly, keeping his limbs tucked close to project submissive body language. Even if Krok couldn’t see him, his voice had risen into an involuntarily, ingratiating whine. _Not a threat, not a threat._ “Fifty-four mechs, sir. All technicians, engineers, and construction mechs. Support personnel, not soldiers.” Cyber-forming was still work for the glory of the Decepticon Empire, but hopefully Krok was one of those warriors who snubbed support staff. It was an attitude Fulcrum was used to, and right now he’d be grateful for some of that contempt to work with. Just a project manager, yup, nobody important! He could just fade into the background right here, in fact!

The number got an aggressive rumble from Krok’s engine, however, and the officer loomed closer. “What were you convicted of?” he bit out as he crowded the smaller ‘Con aggressively.

Ouch. Well, when a Decepticon wanted to make a point, pulling out the big guns was the way to go, and the point was that no Decepticon would follow someone convicted of this particular crime. Pride wouldn’t allow it. Not that pride seemed to be a big deal among the Scavengers compared to, say, survival, but Krok had raised the point to intentionally rub in how unworthy Fulcrum was. Officer material he was not. _’Don’t even try to muscle in on the officer slot,’_ in other words.

“Cowardice,” Fulcrum said meekly, ducking his helm. He felt relatively tiny around the rest of the bulky, well-armored Scavengers already, but now he actively tried to make himself appear smaller. Look at him not being a threat. Fulcrum: demoted officer, ex-project manager, convicted criminal, and dud K-Class mech. Had he ever succeeded at _anything_ he’d done?

“Hmm.” The Look scoured him from helm to foot, and the K-Con dared a hopeful glance up at the thoughtful sound. That had been a surprisingly not-disapproving and not-threatening sound. He hadn’t expected that. He’d expected a stinging reminder of the subordinates he’d left behind, or another dig at his lack of courage. The expected aura of angry disappointment didn’t appear; instead, Krok seemed to be waiting for something.

Krok didn’t want to believe the worst of his mechs, and strangely, that seemed to bring out the best in them. In this mech’s case, it brought out the part of Fulcrum that didn’t want to disappoint again. He hadn’t intentionally been taking Krok’s power; he’d just been keeping order in the ranks while everyone waited for their commander to get out of repairs. Because taking care of the minor details was what a good subordinate officer did. 

It felt, in an odd way, like an accomplishment. Like he’d contributed something to the unit. 

He ever-so-cautiously rose to his feet and stood at attention before the larger Decepticon, hoping he’d interpreted the waiting right. His commanding officer took a step back and let him, still just Looking at him. Fulcrum stared back, ready to go. Lesson learned: no more wandering away from the unit. Lead the way back to the unit, oh captain his captain. He’d follow, just like he’d been taught to. Like he’d learned to. Added to the list of Fulcrum: well-trained Scavenger who fell into line like a good tech-head nobody grunt.

Because whatever else that talk with Krok had accomplished in terms of rearranging how he looked at his own past actions, it’d also cemented into Fulcrum’s mind the sense that this officer was one he’d follow to the Pit and back again. No matter how scary things got on the way. 

Fulcrum belonged with the Scavengers, and the back of his head had taken that fact to spark. It was only a matter of how tight the leash was tethered from now on. 

Krok abruptly unfolded his arms and turned on his heel, having apparently ‘seen’ what he’d been looking for. “Consider yourself on review for the position of my second-in-command, coward.”

“ **Huh**?!” Left behind, the small Decepticon stared with wide optics after the strategist. What just -- how the -- “Krok! Wait up!”

Fulcrum ran after his commander, peace and quiet forgotten, and the chain of command winched that much more securely around him. No more straying.

**[* * * * *]  
**


	21. Prompt 21

**[* * * * *]  
 _“sexy costume”_  
[* * * * *]**

“This isn’t going to work,” Crankcase said, predictably enough. The gloomy mech stood in the medbay door with his arms folded and sneer firmly in place. The only reason he was there was to spectate. It was technically his work that was being put into place, and it wasn’t like he had anything else to do at the moment. The W.A.P.’s navigational suite had gotten them lost yet again, so until Fulcrum untangled the fragging computer code, Crankcase’s mechanical skills were the only useful ones he held. “Nobody’s going to fall for it.”

“Why me?” Fulcrum whined at the same time. He batted at Spinister’s hands futilely. The helicopter punched him in the shoulder hard enough to leave a dent in retaliation, so the K-Class mech quickly stopped in case the violent surgeon aimed higher next time. 

Keeping any and all violence to a minimum was always a personal goal of his, but right now, even excess rattling sounded like a bad idea. Spinister had finally gotten the last of Flywheels’ reforged metal installed on him. Surgery hadn’t been any fun, but Fulcrum’s outer plating still felt fragile, as if the connections were gingerly introducing themselves to his self-repair system. He’d prefer that his systems accept the donor metal with no complications. He hadn’t liked being mummified in layers of repair nanite-culture bandages.

“Yes they will, and because you’re the least likely to be recognized,” Krok replied to them both, ignoring Spinister’s casual punch. He had every bit of faith that the surgeon could keep their wayward technician in line for this procedure. The rotary medic was twice Fulcrum’s size. “Also because unless we somehow manage to avoid an inhabited sector or scouting patrol for the next month, we are going to need someone to speak for us to other Decepticons over the comm. console or, Primus forbid, even in person.” 

The officer seemed to dread the very idea. As he well might, since the idea of his crew of misfits actually meeting a normal unit of ‘Cons face-to-face was a horrible one. It was a vision that involved Misfire talking. Although maybe they could gag him? But Misfire was only the loudest moron in the group. Eventually, the truth would come out, and then someone was going to get shot. Maybe even intentionally.

This was really only a stopgate measure. With any luck at all, using Fulcrum as their front mech would allow them to skid under the radar and scoot back to Cybertron before anyone wised up.

“You’re not recognizable like that,” Fulcrum mumbled under the hands working on his helm. He waving in the direction of the mass of repair nanite-culture bandages covering Krok’s injured face. “Even the D.J.D. wouldn’t recognize you.”

“I’m not going to be taken seriously as an authority figure, either,” the officer said wryly. “Fresh scars are battle cred. Oozing nanite-clogged wounds are an exploitable weakness.” He didn’t mention the fact that none of the Decepticons currently on the W.A.P. had so much as lifted a finger against him, their wounded and therefore weak officer. Ambition and powerhunger had lost out to…whatever held the Scavengers together. “Whatever officers we encounter would move to assimilate this unit into their own if I act as our front mech. You, on the other, are K-Class.”

“Disabled K-Class,” the K-Con muttered, somewhere between resentful of his inherent weakness and really, really grateful for the fact that his explosive payload had been removed. No, scratch that. He was just grateful. He’d take weak over dead any day.

“But nobody outside this unit knows that,” Krok reminded him. “Anybody who identifies your frametype isn’t going to give us scrap about having a lousy ship or small crew. They’re just going to assume you got command of this rustbucket because we’re all suicidal and ready to kill whoever gets in our way to crash into the next Autobot ship we come across.” Which was why Fulcrum would _not_ be on point if they did run into Autobots first. Krok would be in front looking tired and injured and, come on, nobody would shoot a poor harmless group of Decepticon grunts who were just trying to get back home, right? 

If that tactic looked like it was failing, he’d sic Misfire on the comm. console while the other Scavengers dragged Grimlock up to the bridge. Misfire had a chronic disability to stand directly in front of the ship’s vidfeed. For some reason, he had to crouch really close and peer into the camera from the side, which resulted in a ginormous pair of optics staring at whoever was trying to talk on the other end. Threatening? No. 

If _that_ tactic failed, Krok would introduce Grimlock as their hostage and start with the death threats. But that was really a last resort. He, uh, didn’t much want to kill the Dynobot. Fulcrum and Misfire would whine for days, he just knew it. Yeah.

Grimlock was also their last resort if they encountered a persistent unit of Decepticons, too, but more along the lines of introducing him as a prize they were taking to Cybertron to present to High Command in order to get their names off the List. Immediate execution was not going to be brought up. Hopefully, what to do with Grimlock was not going to be an issue at all. First thing Krok was going to do upon contact by _anyone_ was shove the Dynobot into the engine room to hide him. 

But that strategy relied on looking ignorable to Autobots and extremely, suicidally strong to Decepticons. Decepticons wouldn’t mess with a bunch of ‘Cons adopted as a makeshift K-Squad. Krok sure wouldn’t, anyway. 

“We can take advantage of the K-Class’ reputation for fearlessness as long as you keep your trap shut about being disarmed,” he told Fulcrum. He didn’t add on, _”And grow a backstrut,”_ but it was heavily implied. Krok would make certain to be right there behind the techie ready to poke him with something sharp to keep him from fleeing. As well as keep a lid on Misfire’s runaway mouth. “We’re not using Misfire because he can’t stop himself from babbling long enough fool anyone, and Crankcase…”

“Yeah, yeah, exploitable weakness,” Crankcase spat, turning his gaping head wound toward the wall as if that’d conceal it. 

As one, they all shot a look at Spinister, then shook their heads. Spinister looked confused for a moment, but mostly because Fulcrum’s head-shaking had moved him again. 

“Stoppit,” he ordered the K-Class mech. “Need to get this snap bolted.”

The dud K-Con stayed still as ordered, squinching up his face at the ever-ticklish feeling of a bolt turning into its hole. It didn’t matter how confident they all were in Spinister’s surgical skills; there was just something about having the moron up close and working on him that gave him a serious case of doubt. It wasn’t as bad as when he’d been pulled apart for K-Class reformatting, but…ugh.

“I don’t know. This just doesn’t feel right,” he said uneasily. “I’ve never had a face mask. I’m probably going to look so silly it’ll give the game away before I even say a word. They’ll be so busy laughing at me we’ll be reassigned before I even know what happened.”

Spinister finished bolting the last snap in place while the techie whined, and he fitted the mask on. Crankcase gave a satisfied sneer when the snaps smoothly clicked into place, testifying to the quality of his and Spinister’s joint work. Fulcrum’s words muffled a bit, but not badly. The small Decepticon immediately began kinking his head around as if testing if the face mask restrained his neck or head in any way, and Spinister grabbed his helm to keep him still. Fulcrum obediently stayed put until the snaps unsnapped and resnapped back into place.

“Good. There you go.” The surgeon stepped back, testing over, and put his ratchet down.

“This feels so weird,” Fulcrum complained in an undertone. He understood all the reasons why, but he’d never had a face mask, never wanted a face mask, and why was everyone looking at him like that? 

The other Scavengers were just -- staring. Krok had peeled up a bandage from his sole intact optic while Spinister had been too busy to stop him, and now he squinted in half-blind wonder at the K-Class mech. Crankcase’s spectacular sneer of triumph had fallen into something blank and strange.

“Really brings out your chin,” Spinister announced after careful consideration of the job.

Fulcrum fidgeted. “That bad, huh?” He laughed nervously. “I knew this wouldn’t work!”

“No,” Crankcase disagreed out of nowhere, sounding a little breathless. “No, it’ll work just fine.”

Krok nodded slowly. “They’re going to be so busy staring at you, we’ll be long gone before they even think to stop us.”

 

****

[ * * * * * ]


	22. Prompt 22

**[* * * * *]  
 _Challenge: “take an urban legend and write a TF version.”_  
[* * * * *]**

Misfire plunked himself down at the open spot at the table in the officers’ quarters and brandished his tray of little cubes like he was presenting a brand new type of ordinance at an arms-show. Which, from the cackling glee he’d displayed while mixing them up, they might qualify as. He’d thrown in enough additives to make an engex specialist go back to bartending school. Apparently, the excitable jet’s ability to siphon fuel was only excelled by his ability to _mix_ it.

An ability that the Scavengers were only too willing to take advantage of at the moment. After the week they’d had -- the D.J.D. and major bodily harm and hiding in the ceiling and trying to find someone in the ceiling and fixing everything but the ceiling and a Dynobot roaming loose and a Dark Lord in the engine -- getting smashed on wild little cubes of suspiciously glowing cocktails? Right up their alley. 

They still hesitated. Out of ingrained habit, really, because however jury-rigged their pathetic, scrounged-from-the-dregs unit was, it was still a Decepticon military group. Therefore, the ranking officer got first dibs, and he drank first as well. That way, if he keeled over, they’d still be alive to fight over his position. Or…something. That was pretty much how it worked in practice, as far of the rest of them had experienced, but knowing how whacky the Scavengers’ hierarchy was? They’d probably try to help their beleaguered commander. 

The four ‘Con grunts looked to the head of the table, where Krok was sitting in one of the two chairs on the entire ship that wasn’t bolted to its station. He’d dragged it out of the captain’s quarters just for this occasion. Spinister was at the foot of the table on the other chair, although the surgeon didn’t appear to know why he was special enough for it. The others had just told him he deserved it, so he’d sat down anyway. Misfire and Fulcrum were sitting on one of the berths -- they’d dragged the table over to it -- and Crankcase was on the other side of the table on a storage crate. They hadn’t put up much of a fuss about the makeshift seating. If anyone deserved chairs right now, it was their injured officer and only medical mech. One because he outranked them, and the other because it was always paid to butter up the medics. They owed Spinister, and Decepticons knew to pay medical debts before they got cashed in one ‘donated’ part at a time.

They might owe Krok, too, but they were less inclined to admit to that. Mostly because none of them knew how to articulate what they owed him. Spinister kept their bodies intact. Krok…well. Uh. Yeah, how ‘bout that commander they had, yup. 

He knew what they were very much not-thinking when the whole table turned to look at him, and even the edge-of-uncomfortable way they felt about it. But they waited anyway, and that was good enough. Krok still took the opportunity to take his drink first. Hey, sometimes a mech took respect wherever (and in Crankcase’s case, however grudgingly) it was granted. 

He had specifically requested something so vilely potent that he wouldn’t _want_ to taste it, and the Scavengers contemplated potential power-grabs and/or resuscitation techniques when he picked it up. The cube was very small, but it had a sinisterly happy sky blue look to it. It almost pulsed with joyous color. No Decepticon would be foolish enough to orally ingest anything that looked _that_ pleasant. Some organics were brilliantly colored to warn of danger; Cybertronian bartenders tended to go the same route with signature drinks.

Frag, Krok poured it down his auxiliary intake aperture and still coughed fumes from his vents a few seconds later. Apparently, Misfire had gone one further than poisonous and straight-out created weaponized engex. Bartending warfare.

“Whoa.” Krok coughed again and managed a shaky thumbs-up to reassure the crew that his soft exclamation had been a good thing. Sort of. If getting overcharged on a finger-width of potent engex was a mech’s goal, that was. “That’s…got a kick, Misfire.”

“I do try,” the jet said, false-modest. A second later, he grinned and pushed the tray at the others eagerly. “Take one, take one!”

They didn’t need to be urged twice, but even Spinister paused to admire the selection. Or at least stare at the shiny glowing colors. After so long without a surplus, the Scavengers were going to stretch the P-6’s energon for as long as they could to get back to Cybertron -- but Misfire had still asked if he could set up his miniature engex distillery set. It was probably wasteful, but Krok had okayed the distillation without more than a few minute’s hesitation. Sometimes the journey was more important than the destination, right? Chalk one up for morale.

Okay, so Krok really was just tired and aching and really, _really_ wanted to get overcharged. Because _frag_ if he hadn’t had a lousy week.

It’d taken Misfire far too much of the low grade they’d salvaged from the symbol ship, but he’d been shoo-ing their testing fingers and _”Just a sip? Come ooon!”_ wheedling away for most of the week in order to properly distill these bitty cubes of homebrew. Now the Scavengers were drooling over them with a needy greed so deep none of them could decide which one they wanted to try first. None of them had had more than weak ration-grade energon in ages. Actual overcharge-inducing, condensed-energy engex hadn’t come their way far too long. In Fulcrum’s case because of his incarceration at Styx, but the others hadn’t had the chance to sip a recreational cube in almost as long. They intended to savor the bounty while they had it.

“What’s the color difference mean taste-wise?” Fulcrum asked, eyeing a glittering purple cube intently.

Crankcase snorted contemptuously at his curiosity. “Which one tastes the least like engine-swill?” he asked, blunt and purposeful. That was the most important point for him.

Siphoned energon always had an aftertaste of what it was siphoned from. It’d taken him powering down to near-starvation before he’d been able to bear taking more than a mouthful of body-siphoned fuel. It was energon drained from _dead mechs_ , for Primus’ sake! His tanks still tried to hork it back up if he thought about it while refueling. He’d gotten used to it because he wanted to live, but he’d never move beyond tolerance. He was always going to prefer manufactured, process-filtered ration grade energon.

Misfire, on the other hand, had jumped so far beyond tolerating siphoned energon that he’d developed a tongue for it. His mouth’s chemical receptors and texture palates had adapted to picking out the differences between different sources and every quality level. He not only liked the various aftertastes and undertones, but he could identify them with a single sip. Sometimes even by the scent. He’d qualify as an energon gradient specialist if there were such a category in expropriation. 

Before the war, only the priciest decanter companies would have been able to afford to hire a specialist of his abilities. Now there were no decanters left in business, and only corpses and wrecked engines offered them their samples for him to evaluate. He did the work for free, and most mechs would shun him for enjoying what he had to do survive. 

Funny how the war had changed things around like that.

“You ever licked a tank’s main turret right before he fires it?” the jet chirped blithely, uncaring of anyone’s opinion of his happiness. Mystified, Fulcrum and Misfire shook their heads. Their heads stopped mid-shake as what he’d said actually registered. Wait, did that mean he _had_? “Oh. Well, the lighter the color, the more it tastes like that. Uh…none of it tastes like engine fuel, which is weird and I don’t want to think why it doesn’t, because fraaaaag that ship was creepy. So let’s get drunk before we think too hard about what we’re tossing back, eh?” 

The two other Decepticons exchanged a wide-opticked look over the table at that. Suddenly, the little tray and its tiny cubes of virulent engex seemed disproportionately alarming. Contamination from the weirdness onboard the P-6 was a thought neither of them had needed brought up. 

Their heads leaned closer together over the table at the same time. “Are you thinking about sticky walls and hemoglobin?” Fulcrum whispered.

“Brains on the ceiling,” Crankcase muttered back, casting a wary look upward as if the Worldsweeper had infected the W.A.P.

“If you drink fast enough, you’ll forget whatever you’re remembering,” Misfire cheerfully informed them. “If we don’t turn into wooden mannequins by the time the first round zaps our circuit breakers, I figure we’ll live to quaff the second. We might even make it to the third, but I hope not. If you guys are still able to think by the third cube, then there’s definitely something wrong with this stuff!”

Fulcrum and Crankcase looked to him, back to each other, then at the tray. “…true. Like licking a tank barrel, you say?”

“A fully charged one. Darker colors are like kissing a triple-changer’s -- “

“You know what,” Crankcase interrupted him as Fulcrum winced, already afraid to know, “we’ll just find out ourselves.”

Spinister had become temporarily distracted by his lone patient, who was melting into strutlessness at an startling pace. Injuries plus an overworked self repair system had taxed Krok’s body to its limits, and his mind wasn’t much behind. He fell into the open, numbing arms of intoxication with a vast sense of relief. Despite all the repair nanite-culture bandages covering everything but his one intact, semi-functional optic, Krok still somehow managed to project a warm, fuzzy glow. For the first time since the D.J.D., he didn’t _hurt_. 

Or rather, he did, but it felt like the pain belonged to someone else. Someone standing waaaaay over there. Yeah. That someone could take all of Krok’s worries, too. He didn’t want ‘em. 

His brilliantly stupid surgeon had gotten up and hustled up to the head of the table to check his vitals. There was a system ping as the rotary mech anxiously linked in, examining his internal logs. “Krok? Krok, are you feeling alright? Slaggit, I knew your reserve levels were too low -- Misfire, I’m going to punch you through a wall if I have to jump his batteries and start his engine manually!” The jet blinked, attention suddenly drawn back to the head of the table by the threat of bodily harm. Krok continued to list to one side, and Spinister continued trying to prop him up. It was like trying to make a stack of medical IV-pouches: no matter how they were piled, they always slid another direction a moment later. The cable between the medic and his patient transmitted worry from one end and blissful relaxation from the other. “You’re too happy. You shouldn’t be so happy!” the medic fretted.

“Hey, no, it’s okay?” Misfire scooted over on the berth until he could bend close to the tabletop and look up under Spinister’s hands. He peered closely at their commander’s one optic. “…yeah, it’s okay, Spinny. Trust me.” The rotary Decepticon glanced down uncertainly. He got a grin in return. “This’s good, believe me. Oh, Kro~o~ok,” Misfire’s voice took on a sing-songy quality. “You okay there, sir?”

“’m fiiiine.” Krok waved him off, dreamy and relaxed. “’sall good.”

“Oh.” Enlightenment finally dawned. Spinister eased off, but not without trying to balance the officer against the table a little better. He unhooked them delicately, one big hand supporting the wobbling ‘Con. “He’s just smashed.” 

The other three Scavengers snickered, but not because of his slowness. It was pretty much just because Krok being drunk was the funniest thing they’d ever seen. “If I get Grimlock in here, the blackmail would create itself,” Fulcrum stage-whispered.

“You get the Dynobot, I’ll get the image captures,” Crankcase snorted back. “Wasn’t there some sort of form you wanted him to sign? Now might be a good time for it.”

The K-Class mech studied the ‘Con now lolling in his seat, forehelm on the table. He certainly wasn’t above taking advantage of his superior officer’s hampered higher functions. “Huh. Good idea. Sir? Krok, do you think you could -- “

A stern finger rose. Krok didn’t seem to know whom it was wagging at, but he managed to keep it vaguely upright. “No pets.”

“…we need to get him drunker.”

“Get him too overcharged, and he’s going to pass out.”

“I can hold his hand to the file form enough for a signature and EM imprint. If he can’t remember it tomorrow, he might even believe it was his idea.” Spinister, Crankcase, and Misfire gaped at him. Fulcrum shrugged sheepishly. “What? I used to be a project manager. How do you think projects got approved? Magic?”

Crankcase stared at the slender K-Con sitting across from him. “What if he remembers this tomorrow?”

“Well, that’s where the blackmail figures in.”

That sounded suspiciously practical. This would probably go completely wrong. It was too tempting to pass up, if only for the sheer absurdity of how normal it was. “We’re going to need to borrow your goggles,” the pilot said thoughtfully. “These pictures are going to have to be **epic**.”

“I don’t like where this discuss’n’s going,” Krok put in unsteadily, lifting his head so that he could peer blearily over his forearm in their…general vicinity, if not precisely in the right direction.

“You’ll be fine,” Fulcrum and Crankcase dismissed him in unison.

Krok thought about that for a while, mind rolling about in the warm fuzzies that’d filled the inside of his head. “’Snice you guys are getting along so well,” he decided finally, and three of the four other Scavengers tried to hide the helplessly fond expressions trying to disable their tough guy personas with a _’Isn’t he cute?’_ shared look. 

Fulcrum, on the other hand, had no claim to a tough guy persona in the first place and was grinning open affection at his CO. “This is going to be so easy. Grimlock is as good as -- ”

There was a distinctive _clack_ of arming weaponry. Fulcrum’s words cut off with a _’Meep!’_ as Krok raised his firearm without raising his head. The two conspirators froze, visor and optics wide as the gun’s sights tracked across to settle on Crankcase. “I’d hate t’…hafta do somethin’,” their down but not out commander explained almost apologetically. “Break you up. Y’know. Be sad.” Charge gathered slowly in the gun barrel, whirling hypnotically, as Krok’s trigger finger tightened.

“I can fix them,” Spinister put in helpfully, now completely unable to hide the fond look. _Such_ an adorable officer. Look at him threatening his subversive subordinates! D’awww. They needed to get him overcharged more often. “Or shoot them for you?”

“Ah haha ha. Ha. That won’t be necessary!” Fulcrum’s nervous smile was back, defensively raised hands and all. It was like the fear for his life had never left. “I’m just going to sit here and drink, yep! You don’t have to do **anything** , really!”

“Yeah. Pass the engex.” Crankcase’s scowl had deepened, but he mutely folded his arms and turned his face away from his commander. That was surrender in the crankiest way possible.

“Oh. Okay. ‘Sgood.” Krok sounded a touch confused, but he lowered his firearm and put the safeties back on. “Y’sure? ‘Sno trouble.”

“We’re sure!”

Ah, harmless Decepticon fun: plotting blackmail and forgery, and getting their afts kicked for it. “You want your second cube?” Misfire asked, grinning proudly. He _liked_ it when everyone relaxed like this. He sloshed another happy blue cube at his commander.

Who managed to roll his head to point a single dim, scratched-glass optic in the jet’s general direction. “Nah. ‘m gonna save it…save it for my unit. Okay? ‘kay.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Crankcase grumbled. “Hand over one of the yellows. And a pink.”

Facing a loaded weapon had overridden fear of the P-6’s weirdness in no time flat. Fulcrum grabbed the tray from Misfire and began serious evaluation of his choices. Drinking himself senseless sounded _fabulous_. “Purple and…clear?” The clear liquid somehow managed to glitter, which impressed the K-Con. He passed the tray on to Spinister while peering at his own choices. “Huh.” 

“Just don’t mix them,” Misfire warned the strong-chinned mech amiably as he handed over the demanded cubes to Crankcase. He also gave Krok’s shoulder a gentle push, preventing the officer from toppling off his seat. Crankcase snatched the cubes -- and moved his crate so he could catch their CO when the mech slumped the other direction. He gave his own little push, and Krok wobbled upright for a moment before slouching toward Misfire again.

Thus began the universe’s most slow-motion game of Decepticon volleyball.

“Why? They explode? Pfft. Bring it on.” A little K-Class humor. Ugh. 

The jet grinned appreciatively anyway, however bad the joke was. “So the story goes, anyway.”

Fulcrum stopped dead, clear cube halfway to his lips. “…you’re kidding.”

“Nope.” The K-Class’ sudden unease got an easy laugh from Misfire, who took his turn passing Krok and downed the second blue cube without paused. He didn’t so much blink. 

Crankcase and Fulcrum both gave him a narrow look of unamusement. Slagging flyers had iron tanks, the lot of them. They’d be on the floor by their second cube, and Spinister was already on his third. It wasn’t _fair._

The jet they glared at smiled, mellow and easy under the hint of building charge from the engex. “I knew a guy who heard from a friend about one of the bars down on the old Strip, you know, the one back in the club district in Kaon?”

Oh. That answered how old the spastic jet was in comparison to Fulcrum, anyway. “Never made it to Kaon before it got totaled,” the K-Class mech said neutrally. There. That sounded uninformative enough, right? No way was he going to admit that he was too young to have seen any of the first five cities destroyed by Megatron’s opening campaign in the war.

Frag, between his forging date and the amount of time he’d spent in statis on Clemency, he was practically a youngling compared to the other Scavengers! Except…how old was Spinister? And how could Fulcrum discreetly find that fact out without the others twigging on to his relative youth? Age didn’t make him any less intelligent or anything, but he could just imagine Misfire and Crankcase’s reactions. How could he keep a quiet inquiry on the low-down when Spinister probably couldn’t remember his own forge date?

Unaware of the K-Con’s train of thought derailing, Misfire went on without him. “Frag, mech, you missed out. Anyway, a **ppar** ently, this bar did a mix-party. Bring your own addictive engex cocktail night, eh? Fun stuff, but somebody got too crazy with the mixing, threw those two,” he gestured at the two cubes in front of Fulcrum, “together, and ka-boom!” He clapped his hands, miming an explosion. “No more bar.”

“Thass a -- dat’s an urggan -- urban myth,” Crankcase butted in, one cube in and already swaying slightly on his seat. His open cranial case sparked slightly, and he was fumbling vocalizer commands badly. Some mechs had overcharge tolerance. Obviously not this one. “Utter slag. Heard ‘bout that fronn -- from somebuddybody in my old, uh, my old…group of mechs in the ‘Cons…”

Fulcrum blinked at the oddly puzzled description. Crankcase seemed to be looking for the correct word, waving one hand as if to pull it out of thin air. “Unit?”

“Yeah!” The pilot went to push Krok back upright, missed, and ended up leaning shoulder-to-shoulder with the blitzed officer instead. Since the mutual support kept them both vaguely upright, he let it be. “Heard it from…them…but is what -- it was in **Vos**. Juss a myth.” Point made, or, well, blunt object sort of sculpted, Crankcase nodded decisively and went back to trying to focus his visor enough to pick up his remaining cube. His hand kept not going where he tried making it go. 

The two Decepticons watched him fumble at the table for a moment more before Misfire looked to Fulcrum and shrugged. “I never said I ever saw anything first-hand. Just heard about it.”

Fulcrum looked at the others. Crankcase had given up trying to pick up the yellow cube and just hunched over to sip at it where it sat on the table. Krok had shifted from his shoulder to leaning almost on his back, but the officer was blinking his visible optic in amusement at the noisy slurping sounds. At the foot of the table, Spinister was stacking his five empty cubes. The miniature building project apparently required immense concentration. Or maybe it was Spinister who had to concentrate. Architecture was not something he excelled in. Except for how bright his optics were, Fulcrum couldn’t honestly wouldn’t have been able to tell that the rotary mech was overcharged. Utter focus on inane things was par for the course for Spinister.

He looked at his choice of rot-gut mixed fuel, then at Misfire’s mellow smile. The jet was always cheerful. Excess charge just seemed to flatten the obnoxious glitter off the edges of his personality. 

Fulcrum kind of preferred the Scavengers like this, truthfully, but not enough to stay sober.

Nobody else had exploded. It was, as Crankcase had slurred out, an urban myth. K-Class knew no fear, right? “Why not?” he muttered, picking both cubes up.

“Because you’d explode,” Spinister said sternly, plucking them from his grasp before he even got a taste. 

Misfire gaped. “You mean it’s **true**?” He stared at the picked-over remains of his little trick-or-treat tray, stricken that he’d almost blown them all to kingdom come.

“Huh?” There was no way in the Pit the helicopter had followed their conversation. A competent surgeon he might be, but that didn’t make him any less an idiot. Drinking didn’t make him any more able to understand them either. He blinked at the dismayed duo staring at the cubes in his hands and shook his head, dismissing what he didn’t understand. He did that a lot. “He’s **K-Class** ,” he explained to Misfire, jerking his chin at Fulcrum. “Got a kill-switch ignition trigger in his tank. Anything stronger than ration-grade’ll trip the trigger. I took out his warhead payload, but a fuel tank explodes just fine.”

“What, like a fail-safe?” Fulcrum asked weakly. “In case I survived?” Oh, frag, he could just see it. Any K-Class mechs that managed to somehow survive -- like he had -- would be celebrating continued life. Exactly like this, in fact. 

Misfire stared across the table at him. Engex ordinance, indeed. 

“Ka-boom,” the jet whispered, and Fulcrum swallowed hard. Suddenly, staying sober to enjoy everyone else’s drunken antics seemed like a marvelous idea.

**[* * * * *]  
**


	23. Prompt 23

**[* * * * *]  
 _“Afterparty”_  
[* * * * *]**

Most of the time, having only three bunks for four soldiers worked out. After all, someone had to be on shift to manage the _Weak Anthropic Principle_ ’s occasional ventures into independent decision-making. The ship seemed determined to turn around and go back the way they’d come anytime they relaxed their diligent watch on it. Fulcrum swore it was a glitch in the navigational system’s code. Crankcase swore the ship just didn’t like him. There was nothing quite like having the ship he was steering decide, no, it wanted to go _here_ now.

Misfire started sweet-talking to the W.A.P.’s computer anytime he was on shift. Fulcrum and Crankcase had initially mocked how he cooed at the consoles on the bridge and randomly soliloqued the ceilings, but then they’d run the numbers. The number of errors that occurred during his shift had gone down.

Krok told them they were imagining things. The computer was not artificially intelligent. The correlation was coincidental. 

He knew his pilot/mechanic was up on the bridge right now saying sweet nothings through gritted teeth, anyway. Because, really, they already had a NeoPrimalist Dark Lord in the engine block. What was one more bizarre possession of an inanimate object on board this ship? Things could not get much more surprising for the Scavengers, at this point. All they needed was the Swarm to show up just to say ‘hi’ and a flock of scraplets to nest in the cargo bay, and their Bizarro Bingo Card would be filled out. 

Krok sighed and leaned the side of his helm gently against one fist. The nanite-culture swathes crinkled. His other held a stylus that he tapped against the datapad on the captain’s desk. A half-written first draft of an appeal to High Command waited to be finished, and he was stuck. How to explain what had happened on Clemency in a way that didn’t automatically condemn them all as traitors for defending a criminal, but also didn’t throw his unit under the wheels of questionable Decepticon justice in order to save his own metal. Hmm.

He had claimed the datapad from Misfire for precisely this purpose, and he wasn’t going to let it go despite a certain techie stalking him for it. Fulcrum had been direct-connecting to the W.A.P. without damage thus far; he could do it a while longer. Misfire might another one buried amidst the P-6 salvage crammed into the cargo bay. He’d already dug out an unlabeled crate that’d held basic repairshop supplies -- Crankcase had all but climbed into the crate and shut the lid after himself -- and this datapad. 

Krok had nabbed it and erased the vast theories scripted in the memory without even blinking. He’d taken one look at them, in fact, and been unable to shut off his optic sensors for a while. He’d been somewhat afraid of what he’d see in the darkness. There…were things Cybertronians shouldn’t dabble in, things of madness and severe creepiness. The Decepticons aboard the Worldsweeper had apparently wholesale bellyflopped into that insanity. 

Trying to talk logically to Decepticon High Command often resembled madness, but Krok preferred his half-aft appeal to what he’d erased. 

So he tried to twist facts around to look nice while waiting for the bickering to start on the other side of the captain’s door. He knew it inevitably would. Having only three bunks for four soldiers worked out right until Krok’s turn on the shift rotation coincided with downtime on the ship. Then the odd mech out had to either call in a favor to get a bunk of his own, or go sleep with Grimlock. Theoretically, they could stagger their recharge times out, but if the four grunts hadn’t thought of it, then Krok wasn’t going to suggest it. He liked knowing that they were all safely clustered together and asleep whenever he had to be on the bridge. He hadn’t gone so far as to lock the door from the outside yet, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t thought of it.

He idly changed a word but changed it back a moment later. His spark wasn’t in the writing. His attention was on the door just waiting for Crankcase to walk in and try to kick somebody off a berth. Sweet-talking was only extended to recalcitrant computers, apparently. The pilot did bargaining like a true Decepticon: demands, often backed up with weaponry. If Krok didn’t intervene before things escalated, someone would end up shot. 

From one second to the next, gravity gave out.

The officer yelped quietly, but only because the datapad tried to float away. Anything unsecured around the room immediately succumbed to the subsonic vibrations of a ship in motion and floated up from wherever they’d been left. Fortunately, there wasn’t a whole lot that hadn’t been secured. Gravity failures were something every Decepticon offworld was trained in. While a ship as large as the Worldsweeper had its own gravity generator, smaller ships like the W.A.P. had gravity generated by the engine. Automatic procedure was to secure most everything used onboard, because otherwise engine failure could cause as many casualties in a crew as a direct hit to the hull.

There were several startled clanks and an effeminate yip from the officers’ quarters. Krok heard the staccato sound of conversation start, but after the initial shock, the voices lowered again. It wasn’t so much quick recovery time as resignation to the inevitable. The Scavengers been waiting for something like this to happen. Everything else on the ship had failed, after all. Statistically speaking, gravity was on the list to give up next. 

Even as he scrambled for his straying datapad, Krok’s left foot hooked under the grav-strap on the floor. The chair locked into its slots when he pressed down and gave a full-body twist. It was a bit inconvenient trying to sit in a chair without straps, but the foothold kept him down well enough.

 _*”Crankcase…”*_ Krok looked up at the ceiling, torn between actually wanting to know what was wrong and the knowledge that it was just Yet Another Failure that’d be cleared up in an hour. Hearing about the nitty-gritty details probably wasn’t necessary. He finally settled on, _*”Are we going to die?”*_

 _*”No, but Its Dark Aftheadedness is concerned for our immortal sparks,”*_ the pilot said back, voice so sour it curdled the unit frequency. _*”Quick tip not covered by the NeoPrimalist manual: don’t debate theology with a Dark Lord. It doesn’t like atheism. And it doesn’t like being proved wrong. Fragger’s got the grav-gens locked down because I said -- ”*_

He should really be surprised by this, but somehow? Crankcase picking a fight with an engine failed to surprise. _*”Apologize to the Dark Lord until he stops suppressing the gravity!”*_ Krok snapped at his obstinate subordinate. 

Acid, offended silence filled the unit channel. It was like reversed static: there, but not. 

Krok drummed his fingers on the desk. _”*You’re on shift until the gravity’s back.”*_

The connection cut sullenly. 

About twenty minutes later, there was a polite knock on the door. “Hey, Krok?”

Okay, that didn’t sound like a fight. And it definitely wasn’t Crankcase, because Crankcase was still on shift and, well, he wouldn’t knock politely. Krok doubted he knew how. 

The officer stood up and walked to the door, keying it open. “Yes?”

Spinister looked down at him mournfully. “Why can’t **I** sleep in altmode?”

Krok blinked up at him for a moment, and not just because he had to calibrate his optic into focus. “You wake up ‘choppy-choppy,’ as Misfire so charmingly put it, when you sleep in your altmode,” he said slowly, curious as to what had prompted the question. His moron of a surgeon should have been sound asleep right now, gravity or not. “Your rotors are designed to cut through mechs.” 

A suspicion wound through his thoughts. If Misfire had transformed and tried flying through the ship again…

 _*”Misfire! Jets cannot turn corners!”*_ he barked into the unit frequency, shouldering past Spinister to go chase his errant blithering idiot down before the fool bent his wings back again. 

Only to stop in his tracks when a sleepy mutter said, “Yeah, yeah, heard you the first time. No flying indoors. Psht. Not deaf, y’know.”

Krok turned. Having only one optic semi-functional limited his field of vision quite a bit. It sometimes also made him miss things that were right in front of his face. It hadn’t, up until now, made him see things that weren’t there.

“Spinister.”

“Yes?”

“…why is Misfire hugging Fulcrum?”

The rotary mech looked to where the mostly-asleep jet had both legs and one arm wrapped around Fulcrum. He seemed puzzled by Krok’s confusion. “Gravity’s out.”

Misfire muttered something and scrunched around on the berth trying to get comfortable, tucking the disarmed bomb closer. Krok hadn’t realized how large Fulcrum’s altmode was compared to his tiny technician frametype, but the bomb was almost as large as the jet holding him. That made it patently ridiculous for Misfire to try and scoot the giant cylinder under him to lay on. Yet somehow he was managing it, ending up sprawled over Fulcrum with arm and legs wrapped tight.

It looked horribly uncomfortable, but even from across the room, Krok could hear the jet’s systems cycle back down into recharge. 

Meanwhile, Krok had worked through the first layer of Spinister’s statement of the obvious. “He can’t hold onto a grav-strap.” Misfire’s other arm was wedged under the grav-strap on the head of the berth. His grip on Fulcrum kept the bomb from just floating away. Okay, obviously, Misfire was acting as an anchor. Not so obvious? “Why can’t you tie him down?” The third berth was right there. The grav-strap couldn’t detach, but surely someone could find something to tie him down with.

Spinister shrugged. “Crankcase’ll get off-shift soon. Misfire didn’t mind, so -- easy solution, right?” Three bunks, four soldiers; relocate two soldiers to one bunk, and the problem was solved! 

That actually might have impressed Krok if the solution hadn’t involved Misfire cuddling another Decepticon. Also, “Fulcrum, **why** are you in your altmode? Regs are rather clear on that.” Shipside regulations banned onboard transformation without cause. 

Krok assumed there must have been a cause. Transforming didn’t seem like something the K-Con would do casually. The K-Class reformatting seemed a delicate subject to bring up anytime, but Krok had been tempted to ask him to transform out of pure military history interest. The K-Class were Decepticon patriots and suicide squads that were near-legendary, but not many mechs could say they’d ever seen the K-Cons’ bomb mode. That was normally something a mech only saw right before a large explosion hit. 

The Decepticon officer hadn’t asked, however, because not even Decepticons were callous enough to ask a survivor to talk about the fresh horror in his near past. He’d have given it at least another week. 

The technician had been trying to pretend he was asleep, too, but the officers’ quarters were small enough that Krok could hear everyone’s systems working. The only ones that were in recharge were Misfire’s. Plus, the little twitches from the stabilizer fins on Fulcrum’s tail end gave away that he was awake and listening.

“Gravity’s out,” the dud bomb said lamely. Krok’s engine rumbled, and a nervous laugh came from Fulcrum in response to the irate noise. “Uh, right. Guess what? The same sensors that make me transform when I fall register zero-g as ‘falling.’ So I, um, transformed when the gravity gave out.”

Krok digested that. That seemed really unsafe, but to be fair to those who’d put together the K-Class design, K-Cons generally didn’t spend much time in transit. “Can you transform back to rootmode?”

“I can, but the sensors trip and I transform again right away. I already tried.” Fulcrum sighed air out his vents. The jet on top of him shifted slightly and burbled softly, rubbing the side of his helm against his impromptu mattress. “Really, sir, I don’t mind. I can’t feel much on my outer shell when I’m like this, so Misfire can’t hurt me. Even if the gravity comes back on, he’ll just weigh more. My casing can take it.”

More digesting. “I…see. Are you,” the officer hesitated, unsure how to phrase ‘having a terrible flashback of falling to explosive death’ less crudely. “Alright?”

The bomb’s stabilizers flicked back and forth. “I -- yeah. Without the warhead packed in here with me, it’s actually kind of, er, cozy. I’m just sort of folded up in my own little compartment.” 

He sounded like he trying not to sound relieved by that. Krok didn’t know if the relief was from the lack of explosive charges, or the fact that he had a tiny private room. Fulcrum was so blasted independent. It frustrated the officer that the technician wanted to get away from the others, so maybe this was a good thing. It gave the technician a bit of privacy without leaving the unit. 

It wasn’t like there was anything to be done about it, anyway. Fulcrum’s altmode was mostly an involuntary thing; disciplining him over transforming would be stupid. “As long as you’re sure,” Krok conceded. “And no,” he said when an in-rush of air came from beside him, “you may not sleep in your altmode. Fulcrum doesn’t have rotors to spin, that’s why.”

“Can you read my mind?!” Spinister’s optics were wide. “You answered me before I even said anything!”

Krok hesitated for about half a second. “Yes. I can read minds. You’re thinking that you’re sleepy. Veeeeery sleepy. You’re thinking that you’re so sleepy, you should lie down and go into recharge right now.”

Dumbfounded wonderment stared at the officer. “Wow. That’s amazing.”

“I’m a talented mech,” Krok said blandly, patting the big ‘Con on an arm. He used the touch to push Spinister toward an empty berth. The lack of gravity floated the rotary mech away, still staring at him. “Now sleep. I’m going to go check on Grimlock.” Because he’d just suffered a vision of a reptilian flying object wrecking havoc throughout the ship, and he needed to make sure that wasn’t actually happening. 

He looked back before leaving the room. Spinister had laid down on his front, shoving both forearms under the grav-strap and already cycling down. Misfire’s vents wheezed slightly as he embraced Fulcrum. 

The nice thing about having one optic semi-functional again was that he could take image captures.

**[* * * * *]  
**


	24. Prompt 24

**[* * * * *]  
 _“Grimaces/deformed faces”_  
[* * * * *]**

Krok had a mouth.

This was a revelation, for the mech himself as much as anyone else in the unit. It wasn’t that he was adverse to the idea, being that mouths were an integral part of facial structure for many Decepticons, but there was a small matter of the fact that Krok had never had a mouth in his entire _life_. It wasn’t that his battlemask had been damaged and had to be taken off for repairs. His facemask _was_ his face. He wasn’t supposed to _have_ a mouth!

But Spinister had done the best he could with what Vos’ drill-bit face had left behind, and that best was to reform the mangled metal of Krok’s mask into, well, a mouth. 

“I’m not a cosmetic surgeon,” the stupid surgeon fussed as his commander stared into a mirror. “Can’t really make it look nice. I mean, you can get it redone on Cybertron or something, yeah, no problem, but I don’t, uh. I don’t have.” A bright triangle of light ran up the wall where the overhead lighting reflected off the mirror, and Spinister completely lost his train of thought while watching it. “Huh.”

Krok hesitantly touched the edges of his…lips, he supposed. They looked less like lips than the raw metal edges of a wound, which was probably a closer description of what they really were. The drill bits had torn a whole chunk of his mask away when the D.J.D. sadist had pulled that horrid face off him again. This was Spinister’s version of a solution for dealing with a wound that couldn’t be healed. 

The damaged systems deep inside the officer’s head had been capped off or rerouted. The wounds had been stuffed with as much repair nanite-culture as the surgeon could force in, but unfortunately, Flywheels’ donor metal had been rejected. Spinister had tried to graft it in several times, but like Crankcase’s gruesome head wound, Krok’s torn face just wouldn’t accept transplanted shavings or plates. That left systems unprotected and only partially knit back together. Metal didn’t rot like flesh did, but sensor networks did atrophy as the energy was rerouted. The thread-thin fibers could easily fall to rust inside healthy systems or even slough off like tangled nests of infection. An open wound would decay into gray dead metal that crept further and further into a mech’s living structure in inorganic decomposition. 

It wouldn’t be a threat for a healthy mech, not at first. It wouldn’t be _pleasant_ , but so long as the systems underneath started out resistant, the pace would be slow. If, on the other hand, it was a wound deep enough to damage the systems underneath, and the systems underneath happened to be close to the CPU -- well, Krok had been threatened.

Spinister had pulled off a brilliant piece of nano-surgery to save his commanding officer. He’d operated on the self-repair system itself. He’d adjusted Krok’s schematics one vital system at a time, inserting new directions and coaxing the nanites to accept the directives instead of rejecting them. He’d tricked Krok’s own body into patching the wound as if it were a different body part altogether. Instead of trying to remanufacture a mask and repairing the exposed, damaged systems, Spinister had convinced Krok’s self repair system to build the basic structure that hadn’t been there before. The edges of the gaping, raw wounds had smoothed, patching over with exterior plating. The systems inside had slowly extruded connections, new leads, and a protective coating to deal with direct atmospheric contact. 

Then the surgeon had gone in and hooked all the new, still-developing equipment up. Not every wire had a lead to hook up to yet, and not every cable led somewhere. But the operations had worked. The sensory network had rerouted and scarred over as the nanites swarmed, building according to a new schematic allowing for missing metal. The metal itself was healthy instead of dead-mech grey. 

It was…this was…

Strange. Odd. Wrong.

Slowly, painfully, the strategist sought the part of his CPU that had been getting unexplained pings for a couple weeks now. He hadn’t been able to trace the sensor ghosts because he hadn’t known they were real. He’d never had the equipment they belonged to before. Now, he found the new sensor network that’d been assembling over the past weeks. 

It clenched something sickly and hurting in his head, but the edges of the wound, his lips, _pursed._ Just slightly, but noticeably.

It looked terrible. 

“Can a mask be made to fit over,” Krok’s hand hovered over the mess that’d been smooth plating weeks ago, “ **this**?”

Spinister shrugged his rotors. “Yeah, but it’s gonna look really weird.”

Krok put the mirror down, unable to look in it any longer. “It cannot possibly look any worse.”

**[* * * * *]  
**


	25. Prompt 25

**[* * * * *]  
 _“All Hallowed”_  
[* * * * *]**

It never left them. 

The Scavengers left Clemency behind, but Flywheels walked among them. Fulcrum had a patch of purply maroon on his back where the color nanites had refused to match. Misfire still swore by Flywheels’ name whenever he couldn’t believe something. Krok wrote out a memorial entry for the Crypt. He intended to deliver it personally when they arrived on Cybertron.

Spinister sometimes got confused and wondered where their dead unit member was. The surgeon’s sensitive hands twitched, looking for tools the Medical Corps. had barred him from taking up, but he had his own medbay now. It was unstocked and rather pathetic, but it was his. That was more than he’d ever been allowed before. He didn’t always remember why he was there, but any of the Scavengers who needed a patchjob knew that’s where they could find him. They came to him for help. They patiently kept him on track and never said anything about how he carried more ammunition than surgical supplies. 

He held a gun and kept his rotors close at hand, armed even during surgery. He couldn’t be a warrior or a medic, one or the other. His mind wasn’t wired to understand it was a choice. 

Crankcase could die at any moment if someone’s elbow hit him accidentally. He’d been a miserable janitor, then a vengeful bully, and then just angry. He’d only been happy when he was destroying Autobots or weaker mechs. He knew what he had been, and he deliberately went against anything that reminded him of that time. Now he was wretched, but not all the time. It’d be easier if he was unhappy all the time. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t know what he was. He knew he was a pilot and a mechanic. That didn’t mean he knew what he’d die as, and that kind of seemed more important by the day. Facing down the Decepticon Justice Division, the answer had been _’a Decepticon.’_ It’d been enough at the time. If he died in battle, fine, then he died a Decepticon. 

Yet he was onboard a ship with a group of mechs who didn’t exploit his exposed weakness, commanded by an officer who wouldn’t let him push the others around, and he wondered what being a Decepticon really meant in this context. He’d been measuring himself against an out-of-date standard for a long time, but the war was over. What did that make him in the aftermath?

Misfire chattered. He talked about anything and everything, and he told everyone too much information. Strangely, however, he rarely gave away the information that could be used against him. The information about past friends, past units, past commanders, past occupations -- he didn’t talk about it. He spouted references, anecdotes, _‘I once heard’_ and _‘I had a friend who’_ stories that led nowhere important. He lived in the moment, always in the now, and let the past go. 

He flinched when the other Scavengers finally lost it and yelled at him to shut up. The smile faltered for a split second, and the past haunted his optics until he moved on again. 

Styx woke Fulcrum sometimes, defragmenting memory files giving him recharge echoes that left his joints aching. The Traitor’s Wheel had been about to start. It’d split his struts, grinding _through_ him, and the executioners had been at their posts. They hadn’t even looked at him. They had been scheduled to be his only company for the two entire days the guards’ betting pool had odds on him lasting, and they’d been so apathetic about their duty that they hadn’t cared to look at him. They slammed his arms and legs onto the spikes and left him there, screaming helpless desperation as one executioner had walked toward the Wheel controls. The turning had begun, the first _crack_ of expansion that would eventually tear him limb from him, and the other executioner had wandered over to pick up an electrified club. It’d been meant to bludgeon his frame and burn his circuitry from the inside out at the same time.

When he dreamed of Styx, he woke curled into a tense ball, shivering violently. He couldn’t trick his systems back into recharge afterward. 

Krok had a new unit, scraped out of nothing, but his old unit lingered. The comparisons were never made aloud, but the four grunts he was responsible for now could feel the way his optics -- one noticeably paler and weaker than the other, still -- studied them. It made them defensive, even more stubborn. Their behavior had never been commendable before and wouldn’t be now according to any other officer, but this commander had pulled them out of the Pit. He’d made _something_ out of them, and they were determined to stick it out because of him. He could remember all he liked, but there was no going back to his old unit, and frag them all if they’d make him regret that.

In the end, it wasn’t up to them. It was Krok’s disappointment and judgment, but he was the one who had to face it. Whatever standards he held them to, he was twice as harsh on himself.

Because it never left them, whatever it was that haunted them. Their personal demons followed them. 

That was the truth underlying every Decepticon’s story. Everyone was made of what came before.

The Autobot among them was no different. Different, but not.

Grimlock could smell the past on the Decepticons. He could smell the surges of energy when they were afraid, and the confusion when the fear went nowhere. He snuffled against the purply patch on Fulcrum’s back and slept on top of the destroyed berth that smelled faintly of the same metal scent. He blinked back at Spinister, unaware of any other kind of medic; he only knew that destruction and repairs came from the same mech. Crankcase’s surliness bounced off of his incomprehension and acted like a Dynobot sounding board. He asked no questions of Misfire, only listened to the endless stream of meaningless words. When Fulcrum crept in to the grunt-bunks, frame chilled by painful memories, Grimlock purred his motor and curled around him, hot and comforting.

“Is it easier to be braindead?” Krok asked him wearily, hand unconsciously stroking over the Dynobot’s head. The halfway-affectionate words got a growl, and Grimlock rolled his head under the officer’s hand until the fingers took the hint and scratched along his jaw. “Empty-headed Autobot.” 

The beady, bestial optics shown just a little brighter at the words. Intelligence lit and guttered behind them. No, not empty. His head wasn’t hollow. Merely off-limits, even to himself. 

The light dimmed again. For now.

It never really left.

****

[ * * * * * ]


	26. 26

**[* * * * *]  
 _Krok & Fulcrum - “Spanking” _  
[* * * * *]**

Clemency was far behind them, over and done with.

Mostly. There was still the small matter of Fulcrum lying to a superior officer. Ragtag group the Scavengers might have been, but they were still a military unit. Getting caught out pulling something over on a superior officer carried consequences, and quite frankly? If Krok didn’t carry out some form of discipline on the K-Con, the rest of the unit would gang up and inflict their own.

That didn’t mean Fulcrum was going to submit gracefully. “You’d have handed me over to the D.J.D.,” he protested, one hand to the side of his head and the other outstretched as if to indicate how obvious that choice would have been.

Krok just leaned against the wall and looked at him levelly. “Would I have?”

The technician fidgeted under that flat look, reminded all over again of the stubborn, twisted loyalty of this bizarre bunch of Decepticons. Crankcase, determined that they had more of a right to the badge than the D.J.D.; Misfire, trying to save Krok; Flywheels, praying for them all; Spinister, putting them back together. 

And Krok, who _could_ have turned him over to the D.J.D. as soon as Tarn gave his lie away. Who could have, but didn’t. Who’d instead chosen to consider it too late, and taken a stand against the D.J.D.

Fulcrum looked away first. “…yeah, okay.” Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe Krok wouldn’t have turned him in. But slaggit, he’d known these mechs for less than a week at that point. Expecting them to side with him was moving a bit fast on the trust scale. Frag, for Decepticons? It was inconceivably speedy. 

So why did he feel guilty about lying?

He folded his arms tightly and looked determinedly at the nearest computer. Computers were still the most reliable things in his world. They were so much easier to deal with than real people. “Alright. I lied,” he bit out. “What’s my sentence to be?” He hadn’t faced the consequences of crossing a superior officer since he’d _become_ one. Even before that, he’d tried to avoid confrontations. Getting backed into a corner by the D.J.D. was apparently what it took to bring out the steel in his back struts, because he was well aware that he’d deserved that cowardice sentence. He didn’t like trouble.

“Normally, it’d be thirty lashes with an electrowhip,” Krok said like it was obvious, and the K-Con’s tank valves suddenly spiraled wide as terror bulldozed him. Fuel flooded his body, priming him for fight or flight. “You’re not exactly the sturdiest of mechs, however,” his commanding officer continued, eyeing him critically. “Thirty might be a bit…harsh.”

Fulcrum nodded weakly, left optic twitching. _Thirty lashes?!_ He was a _technician_. He’d been sent to the stockade _once_ , and the five lashes he’d gotten for being overcharged on duty had lacerated his plating. Frag, the _unpowered_ prisoner-crops the Styx guards had used on him had left him unable to transform for the dents. He’d be nothing but burn marks and agony if Krok punished him with thirty lashes!

The larger Decepticon shook his head. “K-Class reformatting or not, you’re not going to hold up under an electrowhip. Now, my second choice would be scutwork shifts but,” he shrugged, “to be honest, we’re all pulling those.” The W.A.P. was held together by rubber bands and sticky tape. They were welding her together daily, it seemed. “Fortunately, having Misfire under my command has given me experience making up nonstandard punishments.” Krok seemed oddly satisfied by this, although Fulcrum immediately tensed until his cables threatened to snap. A glitter of evil humor lit the officer’s optics. It did nothing to reassure the techie. 

Krok straightened, pushing off the wall to stand tall and imposing over the smaller mech. “Fulcrum, you are charged with lying to a superior officer. I have found you guilty of disrespect.” Because trial by a jury of peers only happened in Autobot justice. Really, who wanted a jury of Decepticons holding his fate in their hands? “How do you plead?” Pleading happened after a decision had been reached, obviously. That’s when it could be applied toward softening potential punishments.

A nervous swallow, and Fulcrum came to attention in front of his judge and jury. After witnessing several of these kind of trials -- and going through his own -- he knew the formalities. This was a far kinder officer than those he’d stood before previously. At least Krok didn’t have the bailiff dangle the plaintiff from one fist during the trial. “Guilty as charged, sir. I plead extenuating circumstances and,” his voice dropped, “for the record, I regret my crime.”

His C.O. didn’t look kind right now. In fact, red optics cooled noticeably as Krok stepped forward to look down at his newest subordinate. “Regret changes nothing. Because of your lie, one of my unit has been killed in action, and the rest are on the casualty list.” Including Krok himself, as his own injuries were still fresh. Fulcrum was so screwed. “Your sentence should be carried out to the full extent the regs allow, from the march to the brig to stripping the armor from your back before the whipping.“ The K-Con jolted, optics huge. That was even _worse!_ “You should be beaten the full number of lashes and left to make your recovery on your own.”

By now, Fulcrum’s fans had faltered as terror shut them down. The smaller mech stood shaking before his commanding officer, and the only reason he didn’t turn and bolt was because he knew he wasn’t quick enough to escape. Besides, where could he go? The W.A.P. was too small to hide in the ceilings forever. 

“However,” Krok finally relented, letting a bit of compassion and good-humor return to his gaze now that he’d thoroughly scared the K-Con, “your plea of circumstances is valid. For the current circumstances, admittedly, but that’s still valid.” Hope lit Fulcrum’s face despite himself. “Beyond which, Spinister probably wouldn’t be able to reassemble you again if you took thirty lashes. Due to your comparatively **frail** frametype,” the technician flinched in humiliation at the jab but didn’t try to deny the facts, “a lighter sentence of fewer lashes would also leave you useless.” Krok sighed. “Spinister would be pissy for days if he had to repair you again, anyway.”

Hallelujah and all hail Lord Megatron. The slender Decepticon had never in his life been so glad for his technician frame.

“So you tell me, Fulcrum,” his commander demanded. “What punishment should you receive?”

Was he really being asked to set his own sentence? “A strong reprimand and a slap on the wrist?” he suggested, smile rather forced. 

“Has that ever worked?” 

The smile wilted. “It would on me.”

“Mhmm. No,” Krok said thoughtfully, “I think this calls for something more severe.” That didn’t sound good. That didn’t sound good _at all._ “Fall in, Fulcrum.” The officer turned and walked down the corridor, confident that Fulcrum would follow orders. 

Like he had a choice? Fulcrum trailed after him meekly. 

The shakes returned when Krok keyed the captain’s quarter open. The W.A.P. was too small to have a proper brig. Disciplinary procedures were carried out by the captain or in the captain’s presence, and therefore the disciplinary tool rack took up a corner of his quarters. It was as small as the crew it was meant to keep in line, but right now, it looked absolutely huge and sinister to the poor K-Con led to stand before it.

“Let me make this perfectly clear,” Krok rumbled, looming over his most troublesome ‘Con, who promptly snapped back to attention under his narrow regard. “I don’t give second chances. You lie to me again, and I’ll whip your plating to slag.” Just to make a point, he picked the flexible length of the electrowhip off the rack. It hummed when he switched it on, and the deft flick he gave it spoke of experience wielding the tool. Fulcrum’s wide optics fixated on the glowing length. “I’ll deal with Spinister’s grousing if it comes to that. We clear?”

 _Flick-snap- **zap!**_

“Crystal,” Fulcrum managed, hoarse and sincere. “No more lies, sir.” Well, not lies that he’d get caught out on. He was a Decepticon, after all.

He stayed tense until the electrowhip was deactivated and laid back on the rack. He deserved punishment, but he would prefer not that variety. “Good. As long as we understand each other.” Krok patted the electrowhip lightly, message delivered. Decepticon hierarchy, broken down to terms even Grimlock could understand: _’me officer, you grunt.’_

Decent guy Krok might be, but the old Decepticon adage still rang true: all officers were bastards.

…it really sucked, being demoted. 

Fulcrum avoided looking at the rack. There were worse fates than demotion. He’d survived one. Living under the heel of a strict officer wasn’t so bad in comparison. 

Said strict officer walked back across the room to the desk. He pulled the chair out from behind it and positioned it to one side, clear of both the berth and desk. Then he sat down, but he did so somewhat oddly. Fulcrum hadn’t dared move from where he stood at attention, but he frowned absently as he watched Krok shift about. The bigger ‘Con sat with one knee pointing straight forward but the other angled to the side. It’d have looked casual if it weren’t so deliberate. What was he doing?

“Your sentence,” Krok said calmly, “is a spanking.”

Wait, what?

“What?”

One big hand patted a thigh. “You heard me.”

The K-Con blinked. He blinked again. He reset his entire optical system, and his audios for good measure. “I… **what**? Are you serious?”

“Your armor isn’t meant to stand up to combat. Your frame has been reformatted, but it’s still not meant for battle. I could outright beat you, but I have a feeling that a punch would knock you out if I threw it full force.” Krok’s optics narrowed. Fulcrum had been rendered speechless, falling out of attention to gaped in open shock at his commander. “I can’t afford to take you off-shift long enough to serve a sentence of imprisonment, even if we had a place to put you. We’re already on short rations, so it’s pointless to cut you down further. That leaves me this. You will not be harmed outside of a few dents and paint scrapes, but the point will be driven home. Now get over here.” His optic slitted further when the K-Con made no move to obey. “Unless you’d prefer the electrowhip…”

All it took was one motion as if the officer were about to rise. “N-no! That’s -- okay, it’s weird, and -- and I don’t even know. Um.” Fulcrum skittered a few steps forward, optics darting around anxiously but refusing to look at Krok. “It’s a bit, er, kinky. Isn’t it? I mean, well. You know.” He was babbling like Misfire, but he sort of had an excuse. It wasn’t every day his superior officer proclaimed a smack on the aft a disciplinary procedure. 

The last time someone had smacked him on the aft, it’d been more of an encouragement than any form of discipline. Fulcrum usually saw that kind of thing as sort of sexy, to be honest. Picturing Krok, who had a lot of admirable but not very sexy characteristics, holding him down and molesting him was -- it really shouldn’t be flustering him, but it totally was. 

This situation was all kinds of wrong. 

“This is not ‘kinky,’” Krok said sternly. “This is not sexual, nor will I tolerate the suggestion that it is. This is punishment calculated to cause the least amount of disruption to the rest of the unit. It will cause you emotional and physical distress without undue lingering aftereffects.”

Oh. Uh, putting it _that_ way sure poured a cold dose of reality down the back struts. 

“Fulcrum. Come **here**.”

“Yessir,” the techie mumbled, slouching his way across the room to stand before Krok. He hesitated, shamefaced, looking between the hand patting one big thigh and the uncompromising expression in his commander’s optics. He couldn’t actually meet Krok’s optics for any length of time. The mech was expecting him to -- he had to -- wow. Well, _this_ was awkward. “How…how should I..?”

“Bend over my knee,” the larger Decepticon ordered. His voice had absolutely no give, and he gestured with his free hand. “Head this way. Hands flat on the floor.”

Fulcrum lowered his optics and nodded mutely, but he kept hesitating. There was just no graceful way to sidle over to one’s commanding officer and bend over his knee. There wasn’t even a chance of retaining his dignity going into this. The paltry leftover scraps would dissolve into shrieking mortification soon after, he could tell. 

So this was what Krok had meant by ‘emotional distress.’ A sense of dread settled in his tanks for what that might mean for ‘physical distress.’ This wasn’t going to be sexy-type spanking. 

A minute went by. It was full of fidgeting and aborted steps toward Krok.

Who gave his K-Class coward half a minute more of shuffling in place before _glaring_. “Fulcrum.”

The technician blurted out, “Look, this is ridiculous. You can’t seriously mean to s-spank me.” He threw his hands up, flustered and hiding it under annoyed exasperation. “If this is just a way to make me apologize, fine! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to drag you into a fight with the D.J.D., and I definitely didn’t mean to get Flywheels killed! I-I mean, it’s not like a **really** lied if you think about it. All I did was, er, not confess. Which is common sense, really, because I barely know any of you **now** , much less back then. So I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again…ah. Two?” 

The fingers being held up went back down to tap against Krok’s thigh. “Two. As in, your sentence just doubled.” Fulcrum stared. His throat tubing convulsed in a nervous swallow. “Want to make that three, Fulcrum? My hand is armored more heavily than your skidplate. Guess which one will break first?” There wasn’t much guesswork involved in that question. The slender ‘Con swallowed again. “No? Then bend over my knee before I lose what little patience I have left.” 

Fulcrum bit his lip and looked to one side.

“Now!”

He stumbled forward hastily, but stopped at Krok’s side feeling at a complete loss. This would be so much _easier_ if the officer would just grab him and mechhandle him into position. It’d still be horribly embarrassing, but at least it wouldn’t be so _awkward_. That was probably the point, however, and he really, really didn’t want triple the punishment. He didn’t want any of this, but three times the awkward would only make this more terrible. 

A hissing sound of pure embarrassment escaped from between his teeth as Fulcrum forced himself to obey. 

It wasn’t just the humiliation of presenting his aft for what amounted to aggressive slapping from his new C.O. No, it was how incredibly awkward the logistics of it were. He was shorter than Krok, but still too tall to just fold over and grab his ankles around the mech’s leg. Instead, he had to lower himself toward the floor a bit, demi-kneeling until his palms and mid-riff rested on the pale yellow thigh. Then came bending forward, which was just -- just demeaning. The larger mech didn’t move to help at all. This was obviously all on Fulcrum. Crawling insects of shame wormed through his innards from where their plating touched, and he studiously kept his optics down as he rested enough of his weight on Krok’s leg that he balanced.

Once he wasn’t about to faceplant, he reluctantly bent farther down. His arms came up, reaching down between his commander’s legs until he could put his hands on the floor and…ugh. Moment of truth. He pushed up with his legs. That transferred most his weight to laying across Krok’s thigh or being supported by his hands. His aft was now his highest point.

Now, at last, Krok deigned to get involved. He pushed the technician a bit, rearranging him closer to his armored knee-spar. “Straighten your legs more.”

Could this get any worse? Fulcrum’s fuel lines were pumping a thousand tiny pattering beads of humiliation through him, bursting unpredictably throughout every part of his body. They filled him with minor explosions of sheer disgrace. He shut off his optics and straightened his slagging legs as ordered. That put him so far over Krok’s knee that he was practically doing a handstand on the other side.

It also put the back of his thighs in Krok’s lap, and they were what the strategist’s big hand came down on first.

Fulcrum jerked up and whined at the first hit, but there was suddenly an arm across his lower back. It pushed him back down before he realized he’d tried to scramble away, and Krok was strong. When the officer’s other leg moved to press down on his back as well, Fulcrum was well and truly pinned. The technician could only jerk in place when the second blow fell. He whined again and tried to relax, letting the spurt of pain wash through him. Fighting it wouldn’t help. He overrode his vocalizer manually, a little surprised that he had to. He’d known that this wasn’t going to be the kinky kind of spanking, but he hadn’t precisely known what to expect of it other than _‘exceedingly humiliating.’_

Mark spanking down as rather painful as well, apparently. Krok’s hand cracked down over and over again, smacking at an unbroken rhythm that went after every single micron of his plating from mid-thigh to mid-aft. The officer’s hand came down hard, not fast and not slow. Fast enough that he didn’t have time to recover between spanks, but slow enough that his plating sprang back into place, releasing compressed sensors just in time for the next punishing blow. And, oh, did it hurt.

 _Clang. Clang. Clang. **Whap! Whap!** Clang. Clang. Clang._

The K-Con screwed his face up, impressive chin set stubbornly, but the gasp of air in and out of his vents gave away what his muted vocalizer didn’t. He didn’t have shock absorbers horizontally in his legs; his main leg struts had inbuilt vertical shock absorbers to take impact, of course, but the steady rain of spanks were hitting across the back of his thigh plating. Krok’s hand came down on his thighs, mashing the sensor network underneath with broad, heavy _clang_ s. The impacts sent errors blaring over the network, blitzing his cortex with an intensity that could only register as severe pain. There was no altmode armor to take the impact there. There was nothing to act as a cushion between the metal plating and attached circuitry. 

After a while, even the fuel lines and lubricant tubing ached in their brackets. The jolting impacts rattled all the way to his knees and up his back, and it was sensitizing everything on the way as electrical conduits cut off and opened with every blow. The interrupted flow sensitized his circuitry too much, because the ache kept growing. Aching became error warnings. What else could his CPU interpret repeated impacts as but an attack? Fulcrum knew the spanking was scraping his paint and scratching his plating up something awful, but the potential damage was limited to dents. Maybe a popped sensor node or two if Krok kept whacking the plating down so heavily. A crushed ego didn’t count as a real injury. 

However, his sensory network didn’t know that. His sensors pulsed at their limits, systematically abused, and throwing increasing pain at his mind was only way his sensory network could convey what it saw as danger of real damage.

 _Clang. **Whap! Whap!** Clang. Clang. Clang._

The gasps came in time with the smacking. They got louder as Fulcrum’s systems cycled air in larger pants between hits, trying to cool pain-riled systems. The first squeak that got past his vocalizer’s manual shutdown was nearly inaudible under the gasping. Krok’s hand angled ever fourth or fifth spank, almost scooping upward to whack against the bottom edge of Fulcrum’s skidplate. One whack on the left side, one whack on the right, and the gasps couldn’t hide the squeaked cries for very long. The officer had just the right angle to clip the underside of each hip’s ball joint. There was enough force behind each spank that the ball joints rocked in their sockets, and that _really_ hurt. 

_Clang-squeak. Clang-squeak. **Whap!** ~whimper~ **Whap!** -gasp-pant-pant. Clang-squeak. Clang-squeak. Clang-grunt._

As lockdown failed, the involuntary squeaking sounds deepened to his natural voice. That was only more humiliating, because he couldn’t stop making them. The hand smacking him stopped abusing his upper thighs in order to concentrate on those scooping blows to the bottom edges of his skidplate that had him clenching his jaw and whining behind his teeth. His entire aft pounded in sympathetic, transmitted pain as electricity cut off and released, cut off and released. Fire burnt under his plating, flaming up where Krok’s hand came down and licking further out until his aft felt hot, intolerably, excruciatingly _hot_. The heat seared him as hard cracks systematically lit up every sensor hidden beneath his plating. No sensor was left untended. Krok found every single one. 

Fulcrum’s hands alternated between clawing at the floor and tightening into shaking fists, and this hurt. This hurt so _bad_ he could barely stand it. He couldn’t stand it, but struggling got him nowhere with the larger Decepticon pinning him face-down like this! The hand kept coming down, clipping his hip joints and jarring his entire pelvic span. It clapped metal plating to over-sensitive internal machinery in sharp bangs that had his vocalizer spitting static between short, panting cries. The rest of his circuitry throbbed as the excess pain data started to spill throughout his sensor network.

Humiliation and pain shot through him with every spank, and he couldn’t block it out. He couldn’t settle into a rhythm, because Krok’s hand kept finding that perfect angle to make him wince and buck again and again. Piercing discomfort shifted his weight around on that yellow thigh like his aft was some kind of moving target that Krok had to put extra effort into holding down and whaling away on. The forearm pressing on his back clamped down, and the spanking picked up. 

The increased force rocked him forward, his whole body shrilling protest at the hot fire raced over his abused network. He had to brace his hands flat on the floor to keep from being shoved face-first into it. The technician rocked back into place and met Krok’s hand coming down.

Dear holy Primus, _that hurt!_

“Stop!” he cried out, jolting with every spank, but of course Krok didn’t. Fulcrum hadn’t believed the officer would, but once he opened his mouth, the stream of small sounds and incoherent, vaguely-pleading noises just kept tumbling out. 

This was discipline, improvised though it was, and it wouldn’t be finished until it was over. There was no mercy among Decepticons. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this was still better than the electrowhip would have been. That didn’t change the fact that after every few blows came that extra-punishing, extra-hard spank where the flat of Krok’s palm hit just right to make Fulcrum writhe and kick, knees jerking on instinct.

_**Whap!** ~whimper-whine~ _ **Whap!** _~squeeeal! **Whap!** -pant-gasp-pant. Clang-squeak! Clang~whimper~_

But Krok held him securely. Head down and pinned in place, Fulcrum dropped his head between his braced arms and quivered under the spanking. That terrible, punishing hand went back to delivering hard smacks to his thighs, and the short rest only made his sensors scream all the more. Krok actually lightened his blows for a minute, and Fulcrum squirmed and struggled because he knew what the mech was doing. He knew. His ventilation system hiccupped and moaned helplessly. Dread built up under Fulcrum’s chestplate, but there was nowhere to go as the slide and rub of Krok’s hand tweaked abused sensors. 

They fine-tuned to the officer’s touch, transmitting every iota of pressure data until the sensation drilled directly into Fulcrum’s brain module. The pain sang silver and molten under his plating, expertly coaxed to climb to that aching plateau where the next strike would be a culmination of all the pain before it. Krok could tell exactly what the teasing, stinging spanks of his fingertips were doing to the K-Con. 

It worked, too. _**Thwack!**_

“ **Aaaugh!** ” Fulcrum’s little noises had gained volume in surges as he lost control, but this time he gave a full-throated yell as his limbs flailed. “Stop! **Stop!** Please!”

“That’s one,” Krok said calmly over the steady smacks and Fulcrum’s pleading. “Half your sentence is done with.”

He bent back to work, ignoring the squeals, shrieks, and gasps. Next time, Fulcrum would think twice before lying to him.

**[* * * * *]  
**


	27. Prompt 27

**[* * * * *]  
 _Fulcrum - ”no lies” / Misfire - “facing consequences”_  
[* * * * *]**

Misfire had a chronic inability to leave something well enough alone.

This wasn’t news to anyone onboard the W.A.P., but it was endlessly irritating to Fulcrum at the moment. “Stop.”

The jet gave him a gleeful grin. “No.”

That earned him a glare, and Fulcrum kept his back turned to the wall. “It’s not funny.” Not that he could hide the scuff marks and dents, or make the slagging jet unlearn what had caused them, but it was more about protecting his recovering sensors from more abuse. Misfire didn’t know how to leave well enough _alone_! 

“It’s **hilarious**.” Misfire transferred his armload of miscellaneous junk to balance in the crook of one arm. The freed arm waved mock-threateningly. Fulcrum plastered his back against the wall. His aft had been assaulted quite enough lately, thank you very much! “Krok **spanked** you. What kind of Decepticon are you?” The K-Con inched down the corridor sideways. His unit-mate inched right after him, hand at the ready. “Loser, you take the tank. If there was a loser competition, everyone else would give up when you showed up.”

Fulcrum had his own arms full of junk Crankcase claimed was needed to fix the air filtration system. Everyone onboard rather liked air, especially those with engines that relied on combustion, so Misfire should really just scram and let him deliver his supplies in peace! “Great. Fantastic. I’d finally win something,” he hissed at the persistent pest. 

The jet’s optics glinted. His grin widened. 

Fraggit, he knew better, but Fulcrum had zero courage under pressure. Standing his ground wasn’t something he was good at.

So he whirled and ran for it, and Misfire caught him square on the sore aft with a resounding _smack!_

That got a high-pitched yelp in response, but since Fulcrum apparently had plenty of courage when he was pissed off enough to lose his common sense, it also got a more violent reaction. The technician immediately dropped his armload of stuff, turned, and nailed Misfire with a punch that started somewhere by his knee and ended in the jet’s optic frame.

“Sonnuva **glitch**! Ow, ow. Frag.” Fulcrum stumbled back, shaking his hand and grimacing over a popped knuckle joint, but Misfire slapped a hand over his optic. 

The larger Decepticon reeled into the wall, dropping things everywhere as he shouted, “You cracked my blasted **optic** , cogsucker!”

Wait, what? He had? The K-Con looked up from trying to pop the joint in. Sure enough, Misfire’s left optic had a crack running right through the middle, along with a set of dents the exact size and shape of his fist around the armor-grade glass. Considering the fact that he hadn’t exactly been reforged from the best materials, still only had the strength of his former frametype, and Misfire was about a third again his size -- yeah, he was totally smirking proudly when the jet reset his optical system and looked at him.

“Cool.”

That probably hadn’t been the wisest time to find something awesome. 

Fortunately for Fulcrum’s low density plating, Krok managed to drag Misfire off him before the jet did more than knock him down and kick him repeatedly in the altmode kibble. Since his altmode might suck but was actually intended for combat, the K-Con escaped from the one-sided ‘fight’ with rattled nerves and a few kinked joints. Right. New plan for dealing with attacks: transform and let his attacker whale uselessly on his exterior armor plating.

“Ow.” He sat up slowly, not even caring that his aft was throbbing protest against the whole ‘sitting down’ activity he was currently engaged in. After a day and a half of gingerly perching on the edge of or just leaning against things, he was getting used to the ache. Krok knew how to punish his mechs, all right.

Speaking of his commander. “ **What** is going on here?” Krok barked, pinning Misfire’s head against the wall. The jet flailed angrily, but being shoved face-first into the wall kept him under control. And muffled. Muffled was good. It did mean that the other miscreant got the full force of Krok’s official censure, however. “Fulcrum! Explain yourself!”

Aw, frag. Uh. “He kept smacking my aft,” the technician muttered defensively as he climbed to his feet, “so I did something about it.”

“This something being..?” Krok prompted suspiciously.

“Punched him.” Assaulting a fellow Decepticon. Joy. If Fulcrum remembered the regulations correctly, that carried a penalty of two duty shifts of brig time and a black tick on his record. Not that his record could possibly get any worse, realistically, but since they didn’t have a brig on the W.A.P., he wasn’t looking forward to what Krok would substitute as a punishment. Creative officers were horrible, in Fulcrum’s newfound experience. 

To his surprise, his commanding officer burst out laughing. “You? You punched him?”

“It’s not **that** funny,” Fulcrum said, blinking. 

Krok kept laughing.

The orange and tan mech wilted a little. It _was_ kind of funny. Fulcrum was normally about as confrontational as a rock. He had to be thrown from a tall place at someone’s head to be threatening. “Yeah, yeah, fine. I get it.” Let Krok laugh. Maybe he’d get out of punishment if the actual crime were too absurd?

Meanwhile, Misfire had squirmed enough to stop kissing wall. “He cracked my **optic**!” he snarled, and Fulcrum took a few quick steps down the corridor. That wasn’t the look of the friendly chatterbox he was used to working with. The jet glowered at him, good optic dark crimson with rage. “The fragger cracked my optic! I’m going to feed him his **feet**.”

“You want to press charges?” Krok asked, easing up on the pressure but keeping his hand wrapped around the back of the jet’s helm. “I can write it up.”

Fulcrum stiffened. No, writing up was bad. He’d prefer not to be written up!

From the strange expression on Misfire’s face, neither would he. Because Krok went on to say, “Of course, that means I’d have to include the circumstances, which means you’d be slapped on report for aggravating another Decepticon and getting yourself assaulted by,” the officer looked the little techie up and down pointedly, “all that. I’m shocked and amazed that you survived, Misfire.”

The K-Con flinched. Ouch. Accurate or not, that was one to the ego. 

Misfire flinched more. “...no charges,” he mumbled sullenly, stopping his angry struggles at last. The hand on his helm knocked him against the wall lightly. “Sorry,” was grunted loosely in Fulcrum’s direction.

Um, yeah. That didn’t really sound like an apology. The narrow optics glaring at him made it more of a threat. Still, he’d take what he could get. No charges meant no punishment, if Krok was willing to drop the issue.

Fulcrum hunched his shoulders when Krok gave him a significant look as well. “Sorry? I mean, I didn’t mean to crack your optic. Honest,” he added, but the glaring continued.

Their commander looked between them. Fulcrum was edging down the corridor. Misfire’s wings were hiking upward in a threat display. “You two. Rivet duty, starboard side. You don’t come back in until every rivet out there is secure. Got it?”

“Got it,” the two Decepticons said in ragged chorus.

Misfire’s helm banged off the wall again, and Fulcrum winced under a sharp look. “ **Got it?** ”

“Got it -- sir!”

If Krok hadn’t had a mask, he would have grimaced at that. Military discipline was wasted on this crew. Fulcrum sheepishly tagged on a more proper _‘Yes, sir’_ a moment later, but the officer just heaved a sigh and let go of his resident loudmouth. “Clean this mess up and get out of my sight, you two.”

Misfire and Fulcrum industriously bent to gathering up their scattered junk. Crankcase still needed this stuff, after all. The jet kept glaring. Fulcrum found the scrap he was holding immensely interesting. Avoiding further confrontation seemed like a magnificent idea. If he hurried ahead of the other ‘Con fast enough, he could pretend he didn’t hear the continuous grumble of bad-tempered commentary on his probable lineage (apparently he was made of old paint cans -- who knew?) and hobbies (half of which didn’t seem physically possible).

He kept up the pretence of sudden deafness through delivery of Crankcase’s raw materials and fastening on the gravity booties to go out of the ship. One pair for the feet, and one set of kneepads per mech, which took all of Fulcrum’s concentration to put on. He had to make sure they were secure, after all. If fastening on the grav-booties kept him from ‘hearing’ Misfire’s acid commentary, that was all the better. Fulcrum was really good at avoiding confrontation when he put his mind to it. 

They had a job to do. He tethered his rivet gun to the ship’s hull and set to it with a will. Misfire who? Complaining what? Wow, just _look_ at all these missing rivets! How astonishing! He should pay complete and total attention to them before the W.A.P. fell apart for lack of rivets. 

Turned out that ignoring Misfire was the worst possible option he could have picked. 

The jet kept crowding him. *“Excuse me,”* Fulcrum finally spoke up through the comm. frequency. *“You’re gonna want to move unless you really want your leg riveted, here.”*

*“That a threat, pinhead?”* Misfire snipped back, cracked optic flickering. The shorter ‘Con looked at him and winced when he noticed it. Oops. Cracked optics weren’t sealed airtight; while they could all endure brief exposure to the frigid cold of space, exposing internal components to it probably hurt. 

His gradually rousing temper puffed out. *“No,”* the K-Con said quietly, putting his head down and getting back to work. 

But Misfire didn’t stop harassing him. First it was the crowding. Then it was an ‘accidental’ thump with the rivet gun. After about two of those, Fulcrum turned himself around and put his more heavily-armored back to the jet. That got him an actual rivet nicking off his plating.

*“Hey! Watch it!”*

Misfire smiled, radiating innocence. *“Sorry! You know me. Can’t hit anything I aim at!”* He hoisted the rivet gun and blinked his optics in a _’Who, me?’_ guileless expression. 

Fulcrum didn’t know if that meant he was lucky or not. At least the rivet hadn’t gone through his plating? It was questionable if that’d been intentional. * “Try aiming down! There’s a pretty fragging large target under your feet!”*

*“Thanks for the advice, oh wise tech-head. I suppose you’d know,”* the jet snarked, looking down at the ship. *“You can actually **hit** things.”* 

Nice to know that Misfire held petty grudges. Bring the D.J.D. down on his unit and get a unit-mate killed, ehhh. Whatever. Crack his blasted optic, and Fulcrum became Enemy #1.

It was so stupid it’d have been funny but for the riveting. Manual labor was never fun. The K-Con stood up again, intending to put one of the W.A.P.’s porthole windows between them --

\-- except as his right leg left the ship’s plating, about to put the grav-booty down, Misfire purposefully kicked his left leg so hard the magnets unlocked. Leaving Fulcrum secured to the ship by a whopping bunch of _nothing_. 

Minor note on space-travel, here. A ship traveling through space, even a ship as lousy as the _Weak Anthropic Principle_ , relied on forward motion. The front pointed in the direction the mechs inside wanted to go. Simple and obvious, right?

When two mechs went out on the surface of a ship, there was no air pressure to sweep them off the hull. That did not mean, however, that they would stay in place without something securing them to the ship they were outside of. They had no forward motion but for what the ship had, so they had to stay attached. Hence, gravity-booties on Misfire and Fulcrum’s feet, and kneepads to keep them down when they knelt to rivet. 

The W.A.P. had a propulsion drive powered by an engine block twice the size of Grimlock’s altmode. The ship, therefore, was under constant acceleration. Fulcrum was not. The laws of physics dictated that he would continue in motion until acted upon by an equal but opposite force, not that he would keep accelerating relative with the ship he’d just lost magnetic grip on.

In other words, Fulcrum fell off the ship and left Misfire, a rivet gun, and a soundless scream behind.

Space was a really big place. Fulcrum was a comparatively tiny mech. Odds of his sad little short-range communication equipment being picked up by the W.A.P.’s even sadder comm. system were low to nonexistent. Visual search? Yeah, good luck with that one. By the time anyone got the ship slowed down and turned around to reverse course, his unknown angle of departure would have lost him in an impossibly vast search area. Even Krok would have given him up for lost after a while, if only because most mechs couldn’t survive the airless cold for long stretches of time.

All of which flew through his head in the second before one desperately windmilling limb _clang_ ed off of something, sending him spinning across the W.A.P. sideways and oh Primus that was the end of the ship up ahead and he was going to --

Fulcrum screeched again, but even if there’d been air to carry the sound it’d have been a breathless sound. Full-body slams did that when one had a noncombatant frametype. Full-body slams that smacked his feet flat on the ship’s plating and therefore secured him again? It was more relief and shock that kept him from shrieking over the comm. frequency.

The small Decepticon slumped and weakly patted the armrest under his hand. Chair. Auxiliary gunner station chair. Nice chair. Very nice chair. He was just going to…sit in it for a while. Sit and shake. Sounded like a plan.

*“Fulcrum! **Fulcrum!** Fragging glitching rust-eating -- **Fulcrum!** ”* Halfway down the ship, a small figure peered up over the top of the ship from the starboard side. Even from this distance, Misfire’s frantic expression was clear.

Fulcrum thought distantly, in the part of his cortex not currently devoted to thanking his lucky stars by name, that by now the jet should have been shouting for help over the wider frequency, not yelling into the narrow commlink between them. That was standard procedure. The immediate-alert broadcast could have meant the difference between finding Fulcrum or abandoning him for lost in space. Yelling after a floater served no logical purpose…except if a mech wanted to make sure his victim didn’t make it.

He sat and stared at the mech who’d nearly murdered him, and shock had him feeling numbly impassive about that fact. Misfire had almost killed him. 

Should he have expected anything different? Fulcrum was support personnel. A technician, which in his experience translated to ‘expendable’ to the fighters he supported. The K-Class reformatting hadn’t done anything but made him more disposable yet. It’d been kind of pleasant feeling like one of the ‘Cons, but he wasn’t. Krok’s unit really consisted of two fighters, one Autobot hostage/pet, and a convicted coward useful because he could fix the computers. The illusion of fitting into the group had been nice while it lasted, but he should have known better than to assume he could fit in. He wasn’t a fighter. Military units had fatalities just from squabbles in the ranks. He didn’t belong in that kind of unit. 

Still shaking, he met Misfire’s optics across the ship and opened up the narrow frequency. The jet clammed up, relieved babble cutting off as he froze where he’d clambered up on the top of the ship. He stared helplessly back at the K-Con, and Fulcrum distantly felt certain it was because he hadn’t expected to get caught. He was probably dreading the attempted murder charges. In a crew as small as theirs, the consequences for both of them would be magnified a hundred times over.

Neither of them could afford that, not when the war was over and they were so close to getting back to Cybertron. Fulcrum just wanted to go _home_. *”Hey, Krok?”* he said, voice unnaturally level. *”I know you don’t like it when I drop off the comm. network, but…”*

*”But what?”* No, Krok did _not_ like it when Fulcrum used that particular officer-mod. Which was why the ex-officer carefully avoided mentioning it, usually. 

These were special circumstances, although if not precisely for the reason the K-Con was giving now. *”Misfire’s driving me bonkers. Can I…just this once?”*

There was a sigh over the open frequency in response. Misfire. Of course. *”Well…”*

Fulcrum’s chin rose, somewhere between defiant and hysterical. *”Come on. It’s not like I’ll fall off the ship.”* Across the ship, Misfire’s wings jerked. The K-Con blinked slowly, pushing down any sort of reaction. He could dissolve into whimpering later. 

Another sigh, and Krok gave in. Misfire could talk the audios off a bar service drone. *”Fine. I expect you back on the frequency the minute you’re back inside! And check in every half an hour, for Primus’ sake. I wouldn’t put it past our luck to have malfunctioning rav-booties next,”* Fulcrum’s superior officer ordered.

That was the best he was going to get. It was enough. *”Thanks. I’ll do that.”* He set a timer and closed down the frequency. Off the commlinks he went. 

He deliberately looked away from Misfire and levered himself out of the chair. His knees shook, but thankfully, the lack of gravity meant he stayed on his feet. Keeping his grav-booties in contact with the hull, Fulcrum shuffled toward the starboard side of the ship again. He had a job to do. The rivet gun was probably still tethered to the ship where he’d…left it. 

Ah. Right. No, not yet. He couldn’t collapse just yet. The shaking was getting pretty bad, but dignity had the K-Con straightening his shoulders and trying to walk normally. He’d worked alongside military units before. Support personnel had unspoken rules of conduct for dealing with fighters. Not showing weakness was a fairly universal one among the Decepticons, anyway, but he’d been far too lax on that since waking up on Clemency. Look what that had got him. Talk about a wake-up call.

He didn’t look over to see if Misfire was trying to reach him. With the comm. frequency shut down, that effectively cut off the other Decepticon’s ability to blather excuses or rationalizations, neither of which Fulcrum could deal with right now. He could work with Misfire; he was a professional. He’d get the job done. He just couldn’t allow anything more. Not right now. If the jet approached him while they worked, then he’d just keep his head down and walk away. And he’d keep a death-grip on whatever he was riveting at the time, too. 

As soon as he was over the edge and back on the side, sheltered from Misfire’s optics by the rim of an exhaust outlet, Fulcrum huddled down and wrapped his arms around his legs. Conviction of cowardice or not, nothing bolted home his lack of courage quite like feeling this, right now. 

Fear. Absolute, undiluted fear saturating his very metal. The quaking of his internal systems as the after affects of sheer, screaming terror tried to shake themselves loose.

What had he been _thinking_? These expropriation specialists -- these _scavengers_ \-- were Decepticons. Better than many he’d seen and worked with, true, but Decepticons. He had to get his head back on track. He had to remember that he liked being alive, and relying on a mech’s unit was never a good way of assuring continued living. Not in the Decepticons. 

Fulcrum doubled over, tapping his forehelm against the hull rhythmically. It kept his panicking systems from trying to run his ventilation system against lockdown and gave him something to focus on. Right, okay. It was over with. It’d been a close call, but he’d survived. Again. He wouldn’t make that mistake twice. Trust was something that couldn’t be offered without it being taken advantage of, and he should be grateful the reminder had been non-fatal. Really, really close to fatal, but not quite, and that was all that mattered.

Eventually, he talked himself out of mindlessly rocking back and forth, drowning in his fear. He got up, and he stumped back down the ship toward his rivet gun. 

Misfire saw him coming. Saw him coming and just -- stood there. Looking nervous, but probably because he was afraid the K-Con was going to get his wings pounded by an angry officer, not because of what Fulcrum thought about the murder attempt. Krok seemed like a hardaft for following the regs, after all. Fulcrum kept his optics on his work and avoided even glancing at the bigger Decepticon. Anytime Misfire took so much as a step toward him, he grabbed for the nearest piece of the ship available and hung on until he was certain the jet wasn’t coming any closer. 

He was sure if he looked up, he’d see Misfire’s widest cyberhound puppy-optics being directed at him. The mech was probably trying to talk, too, regardless of the fact that in space, nobody could hear him. Misfire’s best weapon was his never-ending flood of blathering. He’d try and confuse Fulcrum with how he could talk his way around any fact. 

Fulcrum just wanted this job to be over with. 

It did end, but it seemed to take forever. He put his last rivet in and stood up cautiously, keeping his fellow ‘Con in sight the whole time. The jet stopped what he was doing and held up his hands as soon as he noticed the attention. _’Not doing anything. Look at me being harmless.’_

Pull the other one, Misfire. Maybe Fulcrum would believe that one, because he’d hop in a smelter before believing this one.

He shuffled hurriedly toward the airlock, betting that he could unseal and cycle in through before Misfire finished his half of the job. The K-Class mech’s internals were still shivering in fear, and every minute he was out here alone with Misfire only made it worse. A huge sense of relief swamped him when the airlock door closed behind him, sealing him safely. His mind was already six steps ahead. 

Avoiding confrontation was key. Support personnel held that as holy gospel, unless a mech was a heavy-duty construction frame. Fulcrum had never been precisely _afraid_ of the military units he’d worked alongside before, but then again, he’d had whole units of support personnel at his back. Lacking a large base to disappear in or a crowd to fade into, he’d have to get thrifty with what he had to work with.

And what he had to work with was Spinister. “I’d rather avoid Misfire and his aft-smacking,” Fulcrum said persuasively to Krok. “Things are, uh, kind of awkward between us right now.” Which wasn’t lie. They were awkward. Just not for the reasons he was trying to imply.

His commander crossed his arms and regarded Fulcrum’s tiny flinch away oddly. “I told him to stop.”

“I know.” He hoped it wasn’t obvious he was trying to stay out of touching range. This unit and their touchiness. He’d gotten used to it by the time they’d lifted off Clemency, but he had to maintain professionalism. The abnormal way these Decepticons kept casually leaning on and brushing against each other had lulled him into forgetting that letting a ‘Con close enough to get poked in the side mean that same ‘Con was close enough to eviscerate him. “It’s just…still awkward. My aft. His hand.” Fulcrum smiled nervously, looking down and rubbing the back of his neck at the unspoken fact that the officer in front of him had done the very same thing. Only, well, officially. “I’d just like to switch shifts for a while.”

With Crankcase, meaning that he’d be working with Spinister. “You swore you’d never work alone with Spinister again,” Krok pointed out.

Fulcrum shrugged, and his optics slid away from the penetrating look his commander was giving him. “Things change.”

“Yes…” Krok shifted, and the smaller Decepticon sidled a few more steps away. Krok cocked his head to the side, staring curiously. Curiosity darkened into suspicion when the K-Con only took another step away. “Something happen out there, Fulcrum?” he asked, unnervingly sharp. “Did Misfire do something stupid?” The officer paused. “Something **else** ,” he clarified.

There it was. The moment where Fulcrum could tell Krok what Misfire had tried to do. 

The officer would take care of it. Misfire would be disciplined, Fulcrum was sure. 

Yet there was a bright, fear-quivering thought in the back of his mind, because he _wasn’t_ sure. Not really. Oh, Krok would probably follow regs, but that might not solve the problem. Fighters could endure a lot more physical brutality than a mere technician. Fulcrum himself was afraid of the electro-whip. That didn’t mean Misfire was. For all he knew, Misfire would emerge from a beating angrier than before. The petty grudge could be ingrained as something deeper and more sinister. Sure, it didn’t _seem_ like the loudmouth chatterbox was likely to go after Fulcrum while he recharged, but then again, he hadn’t expected to get kicked off the ship and nearly killed, either. 

‘Decepticon’ was derived from ‘deception.’ 

The K-Class techie raised his head and met Krok’s optics. “No. Nothing happened. I’d just rather work with Spinister.” He kept his gaze steady. Avoid confrontation, and avoid at-risk situations. It’d be difficult in the close confines of the W.A.P., but it wouldn’t be impossible.

It wasn’t. It took some timing, but once Krok agreed to the shift-swap, Fulcrum managed to map out ways to avoid Misfire for two and a half days. Off-shift, he recharged behind Grimlock in the grunt-bunks, putting the dumb Autobot between his vulnerable self and the door in case someone decided to, ah, ‘pay him a visit.’ Grimlock seemed to enjoy the company. He wasn’t so happy that Fulcrum wouldn’t let him curl up around him anymore, but the risk of being pinned down by Grimlock for a crucial second wasn’t worth recharging on a slightly less lumpy surface. 

When he wasn’t recharging, the K-Con crawled up into the ceilings. He plugged into the W.A.P.’s computer to work, true, but he really just did it to stay away from any larger, bulkier ‘Cons who might be inclined to come looking for him. Crankcase was the only other mech aboard who could fit up in the ceilings. 

On-shift, he stuck close to Spinister and kept his head down. The surgeon seemed confused by the sudden shift-swap and how the smaller Decepticon stayed as far away from him as rooms allowed, but the nice thing about Spinister was how easily he was distracted. Fulcrum asked lots of random questions about medical equipment and Spinister’s rotary assembly when the topic turned toward areas he didn’t like. The surgeon lost track of the original conversation fairly quickly.

That created problems of its own, because Spinister wasn’t exactly smart, but he was still interesting. It was hard not to get involved in the answers to the questions. Fulcrum couldn’t very well stay silent, but casual conversation kept relaxing him. Relaxing wasn’t -- couldn’t be -- an option. Not anymore.

So he was twitchy, stressed, and nervous by the time Misfire cornered him on the bridge. 

“You’re supposed to be helping Crankcase!” Fulcrum blurted when he turned around and came face-to-cockpit with the larger mech.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” The jet waved it away and tried to put a companionable hand on Fulcrum’s shoulder. “We gotta talk, and -- “

Only to stare as the technician ducked and skittered out of reach, face locked into a blank mask. Body language was clear enough: ready to run, Fulcrum stood poised to dodge again. His altmode kibble fluffed out even as his plating clamped close, like he was trying to intimidate someone about to hit him. His head lowered, tucking that impressive chin close. It was a strange gesture that conveyed both stubborn obstinacy and submission, and the yellow optics peering out from under the protection of his helm were wary.

Misfire gaped. After a few incredibly awkward seconds of just staring, he slowly lowered his hand back to his side. He took a step forward, then quickly reversed it when Fulcrum tensed further. The jet bounced on his heels and glanced over at Spinister, who’d stopped trying to out-stubborn the W.A.P.’s computer in order to stare at them. “Uh.” He showed his palms a little helplessly, baffled by the K-Con’s caution. “Right, no touchie-touchie. Can we talk?”

“We’ve got nothing that needs talking about,” Fulcrum said, voice tight. 

“Uh. We…kinda do?” Misfire looked around the bridge, unable to meet the yellow optics watching his every move for threat. “I mean, Krok said you swapped with Crankcase, and -- “

“Got tired of you smacking my aft,” the K-Con cut him off. “That’s it. Problem solved. I’m fine working with Spinister.” Even if the rotary mech occasionally got into shouting matches with life support about atmospheric composition onboard the ship. That was okay. Freaky, but okay. Stupid violence, Fulcrum could handle. Spinister’s fits of brilliance were intensely focused, and not bent on concealing an agenda that could end up with a certain tech-head killed. 

Misfire…Fulcrum just wanted the mech to _stay away_ from him. 

And Crankcase, too, because the mechanic/pilot’s constant grouching wasn’t so amusing anymore. Fulcrum had reviewed his memory files of the other Decepticon’s half-sparked threats and complaints, and they were really only humorous if a mech was stronger and faster than a fighter frame. Fulcrum was not, and now he was extremely aware of that fact. 

Frag, even Krok could off-handedly kill him, for all Fulcrum knew. He didn’t _think_ so, but he didn’t _know._

It was the doubt that was had him exhausted after two and a half days of running scared. He didn’t know, and he couldn’t trust, and the only one he felt vaguely safe around was a giant Autobot whose self-repair was whittling away at the mental problems that made him safe to be around.

“What’s going on?” Spinister asked, bewildered by the face-off. “Did something happen?”

Misfire flinched. 

He knew better than to believe the look on the jet’s face was real guilt. Even if it was, that made no difference. It would, like all of Misfire’s bizarrely quick emotions, pass in an instant. It took far more effort than he let show, but Fulcrum drew himself up and smoothed down his altmode panels. For a second, relief flashed across Misfire’s face. Maybe even hope, but that was probably because he thought he’d dodged a bullet. He was doubtlessly hoping that the K-Con would just smile and let things go back to normal. Nobody would ever have to know about what he’d done.

Which was fine. Fulcrum wouldn’t tell anyone, so long as Misfire left him alone in the future. He’d been an officer; he knew how to hang blackmail over another Decepticon’s head. It felt odd, and a queasy worm of anxiety squirmed in his tanks to have to use that experience here and now. But did he really have a choice?

He was one technician stuck alone in a military unit. He had no intention of dying because of that fact, even if he had to fight dirty to stay alive in their ranks.

“No,” he said firmly, looking at the jet as impassively as he could. “Nothing happened.”

_’I won’t tell,’_ his flat stare said. _’Yet.’_

“Go help Crankcase,” Fulcrum said softly, forcing himself to turn away. He walked toward Spinister. No big deal. Just a mech going back to work, here. “What’s it saying now? It told me atmo’s balanced.”

Spinister looked more confused than usual but gamely showed him life support’s current bucket-of-slag readout. Fulcrum pretended great interest in it. After far too long, the door to the bridge finally opened and closed behind Misfire. 

He didn’t feel better, but it took some of the pressure off. He smiled wanly at Spinister’s confusion and shook his head. At least that was over with.

Or so he thought, until two days later. Two days of managing to avoid everyone, not touch or be touched by anyone but Grimlock, and curtly responding to Misfire’s discomfited attempts at acting normal. Dodging the others was difficult, but the jet’s stilted conversation was outright painful. Being frostily polite in return seemed to reduce Misfire to tongue-tied silence. It was a strange kind of accomplishment, really. Fulcrum took a grim sort of pride in that. He’d finally found a way to shut Misfire up.

…he missed the easy chatter. He tried not to, but he did. He missed it all, and it made him ache in strange ways.

He missed elbowing Spinister in the side, and ending up as Crankcase’s armrest when he couldn’t get away in time. He missed bitching along with the mechanic as they worked on the piece of waste scrap that masqueraded as a spaceship. He missed trying to convince Krok that Grimlock was still dumb and harmless. Frag, he just missed talking to Krok. He missed being around the others, instead of mumbling excuses as he grabbed his ration in passing. He missed being part of a unit instead of feeling threatened by one. 

But after four and a half days, the invisible cityformer on the ship hadn’t gone away. Fulcrum himself was managing some semblance of normal, but Misfire couldn’t do subtle to save his life. The way the jet stumbled over his own tongue whenever Fulcrum entered the room -- and the way the K-Con stonily avoided everyone -- had initially been squinted at by Krok but left alone. Sometimes, personnel issues could be solved by letting mechs deal with themselves.

Sometimes, however, an intervention was called for.

In this case, it called for Crankcase tracking down Fulcrum and dragging him out of the ceiling by one foot. “Hey!”

“You deaf? Krok’s been pinging you for half an hour!” The mechanic ignored the wriggling as he pulled Fulcrum from his sanctuary. “Get your aft to the captain’s quarters.”

“Alright, alright.” Grumbling, Fulcrum dropped out of the ceiling and dusted himself off. “I was busy,” he offered in half-sparked explanation for why he hadn’t been replying to Krok’s pings. He was in no mood to humor a paranoid commanding officer. “Hey -- hey! Hands off!”

“Well, you’re not busy now,” Crankcase said, ignoring his sputtered demand and pushing him again. “Move.”

“I know where the captain’s quarters are,” Fulcrum griped.

“So do I. Let’s get walking.” That got him another push, and the other ‘Con practically trod on his heels. When he tried to turn to keep the other mech in sight, he got a hefty prod to the small of his back. “Move!” 

Crankcase was definitely escorting him. Grand. Krok was paranoid _and_ apparently felt the need to flex his authority today. This was really the last thing he wanted, right now.

No, revise that. The last thing he wanted was to walk into the captain’s quarters to see that Misfire was already there. “Um, hi,” the K-Con said before seeing the jet and trying to backpedal. 

Crankcase snorted and shoved him into the room. “Yeah, no. Get in there.”

It was lame, but he had to try. “I left the computer casing open. I have to go -- ”

“No.”

“Five minutes, come on!” Fulcrum gave the officer sitting behind the desk a brittle smile. “Sorry about not answering. I’ll be back, I just need to go close that casing now, so -- “

“Shut up,” Krok said coldly, studying the small Decepticon from behind the hands he’d folded in front of his face mask. “Attention, soldier!”

The stern tone was enough to pour a large helping of fear down Fulcrum’s back struts. They snapped straight without conscious thought, and the technician came to attention. Last time Krok had used that tone on him, he’d limped and whimpered his way out of this room. Crankcase gave him a last push, and the smaller mech stumbled forward until he was beside Misfire. His plating crawled, and he fought not to recoil away. 

Optics forward, joints locked. He could do this. 

Fulcrum recovered his balance and came to attention again. “Sir.”

Krok gave Crankcase a significant look and jerked his head. The perpetually disgruntled mech sighed loudly and left, apparently tasked with some other duty he hated just as much as fetching stray K-Cons. When he was gone, Krok returned his attention to the two ‘Cons standing in front of him.

Misfire fidgeted. Fulcrum gazed over his commander’s shoulder and tried not to wince every time the jet moved. 

“Fulcrum.”

“Sir.”

“What did Misfire do?” That got another nervous shifting from the mech beside him, and Krok’s voice turned into a whipcrack. “ **I said _be silent!_** ”

Fulcrum flinched so hard he almost fell on his aft. He darted away from both of the other mechs, arms coming up in an utterly useless defensive gesture against two hardened fighters who -- weren’t coming after him. Weren’t even looking at him, even. Krok was glaring at Misfire. Misfire closed his mouth with an audible _click_ and stared fixedly at the floor at his feet.

The K-Con’s vents huffed air, although he tried to override his fans’ betraying hum. Panic had his fuel pump racing.

“Nothing,” he squeaked, then reset his vocalizer and tried again. “He didn’t do anything. Other than, you know, smack my aft,” he tacked on hastily. He forced himself back to attention, if only to hide the way his hands were shaking. 

“Uh-huh,” Krok agreed neutrally. He still didn’t look at the slender Decepticon now standing closer to the door than Misfire. “I believe Misfire apologized for that?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he did.” Fulcrum swallowed the bitter taste of resentment. Saying the words was enough for fighter frames tough enough not to die if the apology wasn’t sincere. Why should he resent Krok for assuming it was that simple for him, too? It wasn’t Krok’s fault Fulcrum was still a support personnel frametype under the K-Con reformat. 

“I’m sorry,” the jet piped up suddenly, and Krok’s engine rip-roared immediate anger at Misfire’s runaway mouth. The officer stood slowly, glaring, but Misfire just talked faster. “I didn’t mean it, los -- Fulcrum. Really, I didn’t! It was an accideeeehh, okay, well, it wasn’t an accident, but I didn’t mean for -- for -- “ He waved his hands, turning to look at the slim K-Class mech as if his gesticulating could stand in for actual explanation. The wary way Fulcrum was regarding him made him stop and lower his wings unhappily. As far as apologies went, his kind of sucked. “For, well. You know.”

Their commander had him by one wing before he could continue meandering through unspecific references and bad excuses. “Consider this added to your list of charges,” Krok grated, twisting the wing until Misfire yipped and moved, trying to get away from the pain. That steered him toward the door, and the officer pointed impatiently at Fulcrum. “Open the door and head to medbay. Don’t try to run, or I’ll make you regret it.” Fulcrum’s optics went pale with fear, and he turned to obey. What was going on? “You,” the jet’s face screwed up in pain as Krok twisted again and pushed him forward, “march.” 

Theirs was a thoroughly miserable parade through the W.A.P.’s corridors. Fulcrum trudged ahead of Misfire, who all but danced in pain as Krok kept his wing bent against the hinge. The jet whined thinly, but any time he tried to speak, a hard, harsh hand delivered open-handed smacks to the back of the captured wing. Even Fulcrum jolted in sympathetic pain for the staccato _’eep’_ s and _’ouch’_ es that got.

Fulcrum hesitated at the medbay door. Krok cleared his throat and gave an extra twist. Misfire howled.

“In.”

Okay, then. The K-Con slapped the door access, looking over his shoulder with wide optics at the jet writhing in Krok’s hold. The officer had some experience wrangling flight frames, it seemed. Fulcrum would rather not test whether he had similar experience throwing around technicians.

Spinister poked his head out of the door on the far side of the room. “Good timing! We’re almost done. Misfire, you can set up anytime.” He ducked out of sight.

Misfire came to a shuddering halt beside Fulcrum. The smaller Decepticon prudently stepped out of reach as Krok let go of the abused wing and walked past them into the center of the medbay. One of the sideboards under the cabinets had an array of disciplinary tools laid on it, and Fulcrum’s optics went bright in apprehension when Krok picked up the electro-whip to test. The sharp _snap-crackle-POP_ had both jet and K-Con standing at attention in a split second.

“Wh-what am I setting up?” the purple jet asked, cringing a bit. “Sir?” 

Krok shot him a narrow look and pointed at the mess of tubing and pumps covering the repair berth. “Get your kit together. Fulcrum.” The techie twitched in place, throat working nervously as his commanding officer transferred that glare to him. “Misfire already confessed what he did to you.” 

Crankcase came through the washrack door wiping his hands and wearing an expression of disgust deeper than his normal look. “Frag. I can’t believe he kept his mouth shut this long. All we had to do was lock the door,” he mimed palming a lock panel, “and he started babbling. I don’t know if that’s a testament for or against his lack of willpower, though.” He tossed the rag he’d been using at Misfire’s helm. “Four days is probably your record.”

The jet kept his head down. He mumbled something about being bad at keeping secrets as he edged toward the berth and started gathering up equipment.

Fulcrum barely noticed, because his entire body had stalled out as soon as Krok’s statement hit home. 

Krok knew. Crankcase knew, too, but Krok…

“You lied to me, Fulcrum,” his commander said, dropping the words like each one was distasteful. 

No.

“I warned you what would happen if you lied to me again.”

Oh, no.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” he rushed out. “I didn’t want him to get in trouble over an accident. Krok, come on, I don’t want to press charges!” He didn’t. He really didn’t, because then Misfire would probably hate his guts forever. The mechs who got people in trouble were the ones who ended up having ‘accidents.’ Fulcrum didn’t want to have an ‘accident.’ He’d barely survived one. In all likelihood, he wouldn’t survive the next!

Misfire’s wings drooped as even Crankcase gave the slender ‘Con an incredulous look. “He tried to **kill** you,” the mechanic enunciated carefully, as if Fulcrum would suddenly get a clue if he just said the words clearly enough. “That’s not an accident, idiot.”

“I…I didn’t want…” The jet descended into mumbles again, unable to defend his actions in the slightest.

Krok’s voice held so much verbal sneering that a face was unnecessary. “You got carried away, just like you always do, and that nearly cost us one of the unit. One of **my** unit.” He stepped forward to loom over Fulcrum, who was well beyond intimidated at this point. “That is not something **you** file charges over,” he rumbled angrily at his subordinate. “That is something **I** deal with, because this isn’t the first time this glitch failed to give a scrap!” Misfire drew in on himself when their commander turned to bellow that at him. “If that’s how you want it, fine! On your hollow helm be it!”

Fulcrum gasped, scrambling to escape too late as Krok seized him by one arm and propelled him toward the washrack door. “ **You** ,” the officer rasped, sounding as though rage had his vocalizer in a chokehold, “will face the consequences of your own crime. Get in there!” 

Primus, no, not a whipping. He wouldn’t have _plating_ left if Krok followed through with the threatened thirty lashes! “Sir, wait -- “

He shut up when Krok clouted him on the side of the helm. The blow sent him sprawling into the small room. 

Spinister looked over the top of an odd structure he was propped up against one wall. “We ready to start? Cool. Sit here,” he said as he walked over to help the lightweight mech up and over to chair set opposite the weird structure. 

Chair? Stool with a pole stuck down the back of it, really. Both seemed to be welded to the floor. Fulcrum tried to shake his head clear as Spinister pushed him into the seat. 

“Put your hands back, please,” the surgeon ordered briskly, settling into medic-mode. The K-Con obeyed that voice just like he’d learned to since Clemency, which only served to make him feel like a fool for falling right back into the habit of trust when the cuffs clicked into place around his wrists. “There. Good.” The surgeon tested the cuffs with a yank, then stood up straight to nod in satisfaction. 

Fulcrum blinked up at him, bewildered and quickly leaving ‘alarmed’ behind in favor of ‘frightened.’ “What…what’s going on?” he asked quietly, almost more afraid to know. He glanced around the room, trying to figure it out on his own.

The washracks were as useless as before. Without anything in the reservoirs to cycle, it was just a small room with rusty fixtures off the medbay. Spinister had been storing boxes of bandages in here, last Fulcrum had seen. Now it appeared that they’d been moved. Instead, there was a big structure set up across the already small room. It looked like some kind of blast shield. Facing him. Um. This was not good.

“No!” Misfire was suddenly squalling from out in the medbay. “No! I can’t do that!”

“Spinister?” Fulcrum asked uneasily. He pulled against the cuffs. When he craned his neck, he could see over the blast shield a bit. The surgeon was ferrying a pile of emergency medical equipment from beside the door to somewhere behind the structure. The last thing he picked up to move was a tiny, iridescent cube. It looked like one of the distilled engex drinks Misfire had made them after Clemency. “What’s that for?”

“You,” the big rotary mech said as if it was obvious. 

The K-Con stared at him. He stared at the engex. He stared at the blast shield. This was starting to come together in a terrible picture.

“No! No, I won’t do it!” Misfire burst into the small room in a cacophony of angry shouting. “I can’t do that, Krok! I mean, what the frag? How can you even -- it’s **Fulcrum**!” 

“Exactly.” Behind him, Krok gave him one last hard push to force him all the way through the door before coming in after him. He had his gun out, and as soon as the jet cleared the door, Krok brought it up in clear threat. “It’s Fulcrum, so what do you care? You’ve already tried to kill him once. You should be an old hand at this.” Crankcase lounged in the doorway touting a pistol he kept aimed at the jet’s knees. 

The two weapons pointed at him seemed to be the only thing keeping Misfire from lunging right back out of the room. Instead, he threw his siphoning kit on the floor and stomped a thruster while raging at their commanding officer, “He’s alive! I didn’t kill him! I wasn’t **trying** to kill him! I -- I don’t **want** him dead!”

“Guys, what’s going on?” Fulcrum asked weakly. He looked between the siphoning kit and the surgeon suddenly advancing on him, however, and had a horrible feeling that this wasn’t going to be a disciplinary beating. “Krok?” Krok was ignoring him. “Spinister, I can’t drink that. You know that.” His voice had taken on a distinctly pleading note, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Spinny? Come on. I’ve got that trigger thing in my tanks.”

“Yup, you do,” Spinister said, kneeling down and tucking a gag in the bound mech’s mouth before Fulcrum even saw that he had it in hand. “I’ve been thinking about how to get it out, but I don’t think I can. I’m good, but I’m not that good, you know? And eventually you’re going to drink a bad batch of ration grade -- or maybe even a good one -- and then what? Boom. Kill-switch gets tripped, and you blow up. Probably take a couple of us with you. Not good, so I came up with a way to get the trigger out of you.” He sat back, having tied the gag on securely, and his optics beamed cheerfully. Fulcrum gurgled back, horrified. “The old-fashioned way! Trip the trigger.”

“That’ll kill him!” Misfire all but screamed, one hand to his head as if he literally could not process what was being said. The words made sense, but then Krok put them together. “This’s insane. You’re insane. I can’t siphon him, you rusty **dolt**.” He shook his head, shutting off his optics like he could shut out the orders. 

When he reactivated them, Krok and Crankcase were still pointing guns at him. 

“Maybe,” Spinister admitted easily as practiced hands began probing the squirming Decepticon’s seams. Plates unlatched on the orange-and-tan mech’s upper arm, and Spinister switched off the commlink router underneath. Fulcrum made muffled, pathetic noises that were more panic than actual words. The surgeon didn’t so much as hesitate before opening up his chest. “He’d have a 5% chance of survival with a full tank, but none of us have that, so call it 30% with a quarter tank. That’s if the trigger trips down, making his tanks explode out instead of up to take out his fuel pump. That happens, and it doesn’t matter how fast I get to him.” Clever fingers patiently unhooked tubing and tied aside wiring. Transformation gears were unbolted and taken out entirely. Fulcrum bucked like a grounded fish, but the bigger Decepticon just waited the thrashing out before continuing. “Drained tank, well, that puts the odds up no matter how the trigger trips. With a drained tank, he’s got a 75/25 survival chance.” Spinister squinted into the K-Con’s chest. “Alright, that might be a little optimistic. 65/35.”

“You’re going to siphon him,” Krok said, optics unreadable but level over the weapon he’d raised into firing position. “You’re going to drain everything, even his innermost energon.”

“You’ll be alright,” Spinister reassured the ‘Con now shrieking a pathetically stifled noise that sounded like a petro-rabbit getting slowly crushed to death. The rotary mech patted his fuel tank as if it were the most natural thing in the universe to do. “It’s going to hurt like the Pit, that’s all. You can survive on an ounce of innermost energon for at least ten minutes, and the lower your levels, the better a chance of survival you’ve got. I’ll be right over there,” he pointed at the blast shield, “and I’ll be ready as soon as you go off. It’s not like you have a payload to explode. It’ll just be your tanks. Less of a bang than a pop.”

“Suck it up, wuss,” Crankcase barked, smirking.

“I can’t,” Misfire was saying, vigorously shaking his head in denial. “I can’t. It’s Fulcrum. You can’t do this to him. It’s **Fulcrum** , frag you, why are you doing this?!” The last part was screamed straight at Spinister, and Misfire’s hands clenched in grabbing motions at the surgeon’s neck. “He’s not just any -- he’s not -- he’s alive! I can’t siphon someone who’s alive! You’re supposed to be a **medic**! What kind of miswired dronefragger are you?!”

The surgeon calmly peeled aside a last fragile internal system, winding it as much out of the way as possible. Fulcrum’s whining, begging cries weren’t acknowledged as he worked. “He was alive before.”

“That’s not the **same** \-- “ The purple jet jerked up short, blinking in abrupt shock. “Wait, what? You knew he was alive?”

Fulcrum twisted, kicking but unable to get free, and that revelation made him struggle harder. Spinister had known he was alive back on Clemency? Frag. Frag! He’d fallen in with sadists and monsters after all! Oh Primus, oh Primus spare his _spark_ , they were going to _kill him!_

“Of course I knew,” Spinister snorted. “I took out his warhead. You can’t do surgery on a mech without noticing the whole ‘dead or alive’ bit. He was in statis, not dead.”

“Then **why** \-- ?!”

The rotary mech finished his work and stood up. He glanced quizzically at Misfire. What was the big deal? “He wasn’t one of us. That’s what being a unit is,” he said matter-of-factly. “You join a unit, and it’s an ‘us or them’ thing. If it’s a choice between saving you guys or killing a random ‘Con, what’dya think I’m going to do?” He shrugged slightly. “Sure, didn’t make me happy. He’s a ‘Con. I took oaths to preserve and protect, but…he wasn’t one of us. Personal stuff don’t mean scrap when it comes to keeping the unit together.” He looked down at the K-Con wide-opticked and panicking in front of him. He didn’t look thrilled, but he didn’t look like he was about to rethink opening Fulcrum up like a tin can, either. “So, yeah, choosing between you taking out a couple of us when you inevitably blow, or you **maybe** dying while getting this thing out for sure? Sorry, Fulcrum. But, hey, at least this is a better punishment than thirty lashes, right? Serves a purpose and all.”

Spinister turned and looked at Misfire for a moment. “Um, if you mean why I tried to shoot him? Because I kinda forgot.” The surgeon shook his head and walking past the jet to the blast shield. “Zombies are freaky, anyway. He shouldn’t have come out of statis like that.”

Misfire opened and closed his mouth, completely speechless. Fulcrum’s vents hiccupped in distress, and he keened loudly behind the gag.

“It’s pretty bad when Spinister understands something better than you do,” Krok said, voice low. He nudged one purple wing with his firearm. “You’ve never quite got how a real unit works, Misfire. You see us all as toys, or replaceable, so you don’t think about how you treat us. It’s like you think another ‘Con will come along, and the unit will go on without a hitch. You don’t think things through. You just throw a tantrum without thinking about the results in terms of real people. Well, time to face the consequences.” Wide, wild optics stared at him. Krok put his gun barrel between them. “You threw Fulcrum’s life away as if it didn’t matter. Fine. If that’s how you want it, that’s how it’ll be. Here’s the corpse of your victim, Misfire.”

The officer took a step back, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Crankcase. They both held their guns steady on the jet standing helplessly in the middle of the room. Spinister emerged from behind the blast shield with the small cube of distilled engex, and Fulcrum’s muffled pleading became outright terrified screeching. 

“Now siphon it.”

Misfire looked at them. He looked at his equipment strewn on the floor. He shot the bound, struggling K-Con on the stool one quick look, but he turned his face away as soon as they made optic-contact. Shame, fear, and a thick, ugly mix of strong emotions seemed to be flashing over his face, oozing and burning away at the same time. Fulcrum couldn’t tell what the jet was feeling, but he knew how this was going to end. If Misfire had to choose between him, whom he’d already tried to kill once, and facing the two weapons humming at the ready -- Fulcrum wasn’t going to win. 

So he looked at Krok and Crankcase and Spinister, but they’d already written him off. He’d been right. They’d didn’t care if he died.

Primus. Primus, _please_.

“Misfire.” Krok had never looked more stern. “ **Now** , Misfire.” 

“Get on with it!” Crankcase snapped.

“But…I…” The talkative jet was at a loss for words. “But…he’s still alive.”

“That didn’t matter before, now did it?” Krok seemed disgusted by Misfire’s hesitancy. “How’s slow deactivation in space any different than this?”

“It’s more useful,” the mechanic at his side commented wryly. “If things go wrong, we get to keep his energon.”

Misfire looked at him like he was absolutely crazy for saying that. “Don’t even -- it’s **Fulcrum**!”

Spinister looked up from staring at the engex cube, fascinated by the shiny color. “You keep saying that like it matters.” He blinked and looked at the two ‘Cons holding weapons on the jet. “It was Fulcrum before, right? I didn’t forget that, did I?”

“That was **different** ,” Misfire almost wailed, opening his hands like he was appealing to their common sense. “I didn’t mean to knock him off the ship! I **didn’t** ,” he protested when Crankcase _tsk_ ed mockingly. “I just wanted to scare him a little!”

“Definitely succeeded in that one,” the mechanic muttered.

“You didn’t mean to murder a unit-mate?” Krok asked, and his words were scathing in how they flayed the jet’s excuse apart. “You were just going to throw him off the ship ‘a little.’ He was only going to die ‘a little.’ Explain to me how exactly that works, Misfire, because I can’t see it.”

“I didn’t intend -- “

“And I don’t intend for Fulcrum to die now, either,” the officer said, squashing Misfire ruthlessly. “He’s only going to blow up a little. There’s a good chance he’ll make it, after all. That’s enough for me, and what do you care, anyway? I don’t know why you’re putting up such a fuss when you’re perfectly willing to put the rest of us at risk with your aftheaded antics the rest of the time. What makes this so special? Just siphon him and get out of here! You don’t have to watch. You don’t even have to go near him afterward -- if he makes it.” 

Crankcase heaved an irritated sigh. “Bet you wouldn’t even flip a fan if it were me on the chair instead.”

There was a long moment of silence filled only by the tiny, desperate sounds of a mech too afraid to even scream anymore. Fulcrum just sat and trembled violently, optics begging for mercy Decepticons didn’t have on each other. Not most Decepticons, but he’d -- frag him, yes, okay, he knew it was stupid, but he’d thought these ones did. He still couldn’t stop himself from praying frantically that Misfire would just _refuse_. But that would be suicidal.

Misfire looked down at his equipment. He whispered something toward it.

Crankcase’s ever-present frown deepened. “No you wouldn’t.”

“Yes I would,” the jet said softly, still staring at the floor.

“Would not.”

“Would too!”

“The frag you would. You don’t give a scrap about me.”

“Do too!”

“You pushed me off a cliff, once!”

“Well, yeah, but -- “ Misfire’s mind caught up with his mouth. He blinked, lifting his head to look at the grouchy pilot/mechanic. The grouchy pilot/mechanic with the large, gaping head wound that could have easily gotten him killed if he’d fallen wrong. “…oh. Yeah. I did.” He bit his lip and looked away. “I…sorry.”

“Yeah, slag you,” Crankcase spat, cracked visor narrowing. “You’re always ‘sorry’ afterward, and it means **nothing**. It’s just a word. How the frag’s that going to help me next time you don’t fragging **think** before you pull this slag? Huh? Tell me that!” His gun dropped suddenly as he took a step forward to point an accusing finger at the jet standing before him, shamefaced. “You expect me to believe that you’re one of my unit? You’re just along for the blasted ride!”

“No!” Hands open, Misfire took a step forward, but he retreated a second later when Krok’s gun charged audibly. “No, look, it’s not like that. I didn’t mean to -- to hurt you. I’ve got your back, Cranky, really, I do.” He glanced toward Fulcrum and away again. “Krok, please. I can’t do this. You can’t do this. He doesn’t deserve it. It’s not his fault that I, um, that I kinda, sorta, um.” Another glance, and wide yellow optics pleaded pitifully at him. “Fraggit, I’m **sorry**!” he finished in a nonsensical rush.

“He lied to me,” Krok said without lowering his gun. “He deserves what’s coming to him. And you are **going** to siphon him, or I’m going to shoot you.”

Misfire started to open his mouth. The gun hummed with power. He closed his mouth and chewed on his bottom lip, looking between his commander and the gagged, whimpering K-Con. 

After a full minute, he swallowed a mouthful of acrid guilt and fear. It looked like it hurt going down. “…no.”

“You want to say that again?” Krok demanded quietly. His gun charged louder than he spoke. 

“No.” Misfire squared his shoulders and shook his wings back to face his commander. “I won’t do it. I won’t let you do this to him.” His hands clenched slowly into fists at his sides.

“And how are you going to stop me?” Krok met his optics, gaze cutting into Misfire’s newfound conviction. “What are you going to do, Misfire?”

The jet’s face twitched uncertainly. Right. Three armed Decepticons, two of them with weapons already bared. One flyer. He was at a disadvantage, here. “Uh…beg?”

Behind the gag, Fulcrum half-laughed, half-sobbed. Primus, if _that_ tactic worked, he’d have had a chance. All he lacked was the ability to get on his knees, at this point. But since when did begging make a difference in Decepticon justice? He’d done more than his fair share of that back on Styx, and all that’d gotten him was mocking laughter.

Something painful and warm still lit his spark when Misfire dropped to the floor in his stead. It was a useless gesture, but…the fact that someone was _trying_ mattered.

Krok merely stepped closer and set his gun barrel against the jet’s forehelm. “Get up and siphon him.”

Misfire froze in a flinch, one optic off. “N-no, sir. Please, Krok. He lied because -- alright, I don’t really know why he lied, but it was probably because of me. I thought he’d run to you first off, but he didn’t, and then he wouldn’t talk to me so I didn’t know what was going on, but **please**. It’s still my fault, and I’m sorry. I really am! Okay, I’m stupid and I don’t think. Okay, I get it. I’ll do better guys, I really will,” he promised, helm making tiny motions as he tried to look at the whole unit despite the gun pressed against him. “I’m just not, um, good with this unit stuff -- no excuses, okay, got it!” he yelped, face squinching up as Krok shoved the hot barrel further into his forehelm. “I’m stupid! I’m really stupid! But I’ll make it up to you! I swear! Primus fraggit, I’ve been trying to make things right all slagging week, but he wouldn’t **let** me. You gotta believe me! He was just trying to pretend it hadn’t happened! That’s, like, a trauma victim phase, right? You shouldn’t punish someone for traumatic events. That’d be mean and evil and come **on** , what do I have to **do** , Krok?! I’ll do it. I will. I just can’t, I can’t. Not. Not this.” His knees shuffled among the tubes and pumps of his siphoning kit. “You can’t do this, Krok. Please. You can’t.”

He peered piteously around the gun at the officer standing above him. “It’s **Fulcrum** ,” he said, miserably offering that argument one more time. 

And Fulcrum could only stare. Things were shifting and reordering themselves in his head somewhere behind the terror, and he wasn’t sure what he felt.

Krok stood impassive. Misfire just looked up at him. “Please?”

The gun slowly lifted away. Krok reached down, putting his forefinger on the metal the barrel had heated. “It’s Fulcrum,” he agreed solemnly, optics very somber. “That’s the whole point, Misfire. We’re angry with you because it’s Fulcrum. Just like we’re angry with you when it’s one of us, because **we’re a unit**. We defend our own. Doesn’t matter if we don’t like each other or not.”

“You twit,” Crankcase added, folding his arms.

“Seemed obvious enough to me,” Spinister put in. “I’d get mad if someone took a swing at you, too.”

“I’d applaud.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Krok sighed, standing up straight and giving Crankcase a quelling look. 

The mechanic shrugged. “Eh. I’ll shoot whoever hurts one of you guys, but I’m still gonna give points for style.”

“Do I get points?” Spinister asked as he walked back across the room to fiddle with Fulcrum’s cuffs.

“You get points for remembering my name,” Crankcase scoffed, turning around to leave the washrack. 

Misfire and Fulcrum were too dumbfounded to react. The threatening atmosphere that’d been choking them had up and disappeared in the space of a moment, leaving three Decepticons who looked tired of dealing with them. No more charged weaponry. No more glaring, at least once Crankcase was out of the room. Spinister uncuffed Fulcrum and yanked him to his feet, mechhandling him around to get at the knot holding the gag in. Krok pulled Misfire up similarly, except he used a wing.

“Go, go. We’ve got surgery to do,” the rotary mech told Fulcrum cheerfully once he got the gag off. He pushed the smaller ‘Con along from behind.

“We…we do?” the K-Con meekly asked, still weak at the knees. He let himself be pushed. Getting out of that room was an awesome idea. The best idea ever. He wanted to find a corner and scrunch himself safely into it for a while, but escaping this room was his number one priority, even more important than closing up his chest.

“Yep. I still want a look at that trigger.” Only Spinister’s hands on his shoulders kept Fulcrum from running for it. “Relax! No explosions. No pain-patches, either, but take what you can get. I’m going to have to open up your tank with boltcutters and put you back together with glue, but I shouldn’t have to drain you much. I just want to see the inside of your tank.” He wrestled the slender Decepticon toward the repair berth. “I don’t think I can take the trigger out, but maybe I can’t find a way to make it stick.”

That…sounded kind of horrible. Not nearly as bad as -- well, yeah. That. But still kind of horrible. “I don’t want this,” Fulcrum said in a teensy voice.

“You want thirty lashes?” Krok called from inside the washrack.

The K-Con had gotten one foot up against the berth, pushing away from it while Spinister tried to push him toward it. At that, he stopped dead. “No. No, I -- “ He swallowed. “No.”

“Then take your punishment like a Decepticon.” The officer’s voice grew barbs. “Speaking of which, where do you think **you’re** going?”

“Hold on, hold on,” was muttered, and when Fulcrum finally let himself be set on the repair berth, he looked up to find that Misfire was standing in the doorway looking at him. “Pinheaaaah, uh, Fulcrum. Look. I. I’m sorry.”

The K-Con turned and pulled up his legs to lay down. ‘Sorry’ was just a word. 

“Fulcrum? I really am.”

“Hands up,” Spinister told him, patting the top of the berth. 

Fulcrum looked up and shuddered. Straps were never a good thing, but compared to the alternative…thirty lashes for lying to a superior officer might have been what he deserved, but like the Pit did he want that. At least this pain would, as Spinister had pointed out, serve a purpose. He put his arms over his head and tried to ignore how his spark squeezed in his chest. The surgeon tied him down by the wrists, and he rolled his helm away from the jet trying to get his attention. He truly didn’t know what he thought about what Krok had just put him -- put _them_ \-- through. He needed time to process everything. 

“Fulcrum, c’mon! Will you just look at me?! I’m trying to apologize to you, loser!”

“Misfire! Get over here!” Krok ordered.

“Just a second! Frag, I -- “

“Now!” There was a familiar _snap-crackle_ , but Misfire’s yip of pain cut off the final _POP_ as the electro-whip hit. “Cuff yourself to the chair right now, Misfire, or you’ll take six more lashes for every second you continue to disobey.”

Fulcrum pressed his lips together and offlined his optics. He really didn’t want to see Spinister use those over-sized scissors he’d just picked up. “No exploding?” he asked, unable to pull off a light tone at all. It came out more like a plea for reassurance.

“Nope.” There was the bizarre feeling of a hand patting his fuel tank again. “You’ll probably pass out when I pull this open, but other than excruciating agony, you’ll be just fine. I might even have good news when you wake up again!”

Reassuring, that was not.

He gritted his teeth together and braced for it. He just wanted to wake up again. Please, Primus. Fulcrum just wanted to live. 

Over in the other room, an electro-whip snapped a couple times, then settled into a steady rhythm. There was a constant stifled of small sounds accompanying it, just low enough not to qualify as screaming. Grunts, some yelps, and a few loud cries came in time with the electric impact-zaps of a disciplinary beating. 

Fulcrum never heard if Misfire started screaming later on. His own shrieking would have covered up any noise the jet made, anyway. And after a while, he didn’t hear anything anymore. 

He woke to silence. 

That wasn’t entirely accurate. He actually woke to the shrill internal _tiiiiiiiing_ of stressed systems fighting to stay in recharge. Right on the heels of that came a tidal wave of pain that blotted out any hope of slipping back into peaceful sleep. Fulcrum’s systems seized up in sudden reset, and he passed back out.

Second time, same as the first, except he managed to regain consciousness a few minutes after total system reset this time. Peaceful sleep wasn’t going to an option for a long while, not until self-repair stopped haunting his recharge with pain-echoes. Oh, his _tank_. Ow. _Ow._ Maybe he should have taken the whipping.

“Blurrrgh.” 

Talking was bad. No more talking. If that groan could have qualified as talking. It made his head hurt worse, either way. His whole body throbbed as excess pain bled over his sensor network from his tank. He fumbled at his chest with one hand, infinitely relieved that his hands were free again but still afraid that this nightmare wasn’t over, Spinister was still operating on him, and -- no. Okay. His torso was closed up.

“Welcome back to the W.A.P.!” someone said from nearby. Spinister, it sounded like. “Here.” His hand taken off his chest plates, turned over, and a blocky thing was pressed into it. It felt like a cube of energon. “Drink this. You’ll feel better with something in your tanks.” Fulcrum blearily wondered if he should feel afraid about having the surgeon who’d been threatening to blow him up for the team standing over him again, but he couldn’t worry about that right now. All he wanted to do was have the medic make him feel better. A hand slid under his neck, helping him sit up just enough to guide the cube to his mouth. “Slow and easy. Just like that. Good. No leaks, don’t worry. I already checked.” 

His tank pinged him, abruptly letting him know that as much as it hurt, it’d really like more of that fuel he’d been sipping. Had his levels really gotten that low? He checked his gauge and felt fuzzily surprised at what it told him. Apparently he’d been all but dry. Huh. 

Spinister helped tip the cube up a bit more. “Theeeeere you go. So, good news/bad news time, okay? No, no, keep drinking. Nothing **bad** bad. I just couldn’t take out the trigger. It’s possible to do it, but I can’t do it myself. We’ll have to find somebody else. Good news is that I injected some epoxy into the moving parts. It won’t stop you from exploding, but it’ll, well. You’ll definitely feel some clicking in your tank before it happens, so at least the rest of us can dodge for cover. Doesn’t do much for you, I know, but if I’m still alive, I can try to salvage you.” The surgeon didn’t sound happy about that. 

Fulcrum wasn’t happy about it, either. Although it wasn’t like his condition was worse than before. He still had a kill-switch in his gut. It was just that now the others in the unit might make it even if he didn’t.

Was that important? 

He wanted to survive. Was it important if anyone else did?

On Clemency, the answer had seemed so clear. He’d been willing to die for the others. Once they’d left the planet, that’d faded into the background to become something he tried not to think about. He’d spent four and a half days trying to reverse his previous answer. Now Krok’s whatever-the-frag-that’d-been intervention had him scrambled again.

The cube was eventually finished. Spinister took it away and rustled about nearby. Fulcrum lay quietly and thought. 

Something landed on his chest with a _clack_. “When you’re ready to get up, read this first thing. Alright?” 

One hand wandered up to feel at the thing. A datapad? It was either Krok’s or Spinister’s, and he wondered vaguely what was important enough for them to let it out of their hands. He gave the tiniest nod possible. His head still throbbed pain for the motion. 

“Good. I’m gonna go help Crankcase clean up. Grimlock got into the cargobay while we were all busy, and it’s a mess. Read that right away, remember. There’s pictures at the end if you need ‘em. I did,” the surgeon admitted easily. 

Footsteps crossed the medbay, and the door swooshed closed behind them. 

Fulcrum didn’t move. He hurt too much, in and out. Not all of it was physical.

He had to…he had to think. About the Scavengers. About where he belonged. If he belonged. If he _could_ belong.

There was an odd, erratic clicking noise across the room. He couldn’t tell what it was. He tried not to let it bother him. 

He didn’t want to think about any of this. He had to, but his processors were blitzed with too much conflicting information on everything. He had so many thoughts that went nowhere, or that circled around to exactly where they’d started. There was no progress being made.

He might as well get up. 

Sore and tired already, Fulcrum onlined his optics and tried to find the motivation to grab the datapad and turn it on. It was probably orders from Krok. Surgery while still awake must not have been enough punishment. He was never, ever lying to Krok again.

The clicking came again, and he rolled his helm to track the sound.

Misfire stared back at him.

The K-Con’s vents flipped shut. Panic had his fuel pump pounding in an instant, and for a second he didn’t even care how his body jolted with the pain of jerking into a sitting position on the berth. It was only when he had to catch himself from falling off the other side of the berth that he realized how much he slagging well _hurt_.

Pain doubled him over and had him spitting garbled feedback.

Surgery without pain-patches sucked. Ow.

“Frag,” he rasped. He had to concentrate to open his vents again, and the fans whirred uncertainly, as if afraid full turns would cause more pain. When they started turning at last, he finally looked up again. 

Misfire was still across the room. The jet looked like he wanted to lunge forward and do -- something, but he didn’t. He dropped his optics and went back to separating little parts into a series of small bins set up on the sideboard. It was a job that looked boring and tedious. That was not the kind of job a wise officer assigned a mech like Misfire. 

Then again, the jet wasn’t in the greatest condition at the moment. Turning back to his task exposed his back to Fulcrum, who hissed in a deep vent in shock. Rows and rows of burnt whip-scores lined Misfire’s wings in vertical stripes that had barely left any of the purple paint behind. Horizontal stripes were meticulously placed down his back, deep black char showing the extent of the brutal beating. Admittedly, combat-grade armor plating likely meant the jet didn’t feel the whip-scores like Fulcrum would have, but still!

“Misfire?” he croaked, unable to stop a surge of sympathy. Primus, that looked awful. 

Surprisingly timid optics looked up and over at him. They met his gaze for only a moment before dropping to the datapad that’d slid into the K-Con’s lap. 

Fulcrum barely noticed the significant look, however, because he was just now seeing the gag strapped into Misfire’s mouth. Whoa. What the..?

He groped after the datapad, unable to look away from the jet until he finally managed to fumble the power on. When he did look away to read, the short text message explained everything and nothing:

_”Fulcrum. Misfire’s sentence is to be shunned for the length of time you would have been missing and presumed dead at this point. From the moment you read this, he no longer exists. You don’t hear him, you don’t see him. He’s been instructed not to interact with us in any way. Your sentence has been served. -Krok”_

There were, indeed, pictures at the end. Fulcrum dazedly looked at them, barely understanding what they meant. Stick figures representing each of the mechs onboard the W.A.P. were in the first picture, marked ‘Day Zero.’ In the second picture, ‘Day One,’ Misfire’s stick figure vanished. It didn’t reappear until the ‘Day Five’ picture. 

He slid off the berth, legs shaking slightly with the pain. He didn’t let go of the repair berth until he was sure they could take his weight. Across the room, Misfire was sorting parts and looking absolutely, utterly wretched. Fulcrum looked toward the door. He looked toward the chatterbox jet who’d nearly killed him and then tried to save him.

Neither of them, he was sure, had any intention of disobeying their commander any time soon. He was just as sure that this ‘shunning’ thing wouldn’t dissolve the massive wedge of awkward stuck between them. Neither one of them had any idea what to do about broken trust or the aftermath. Avoiding confrontation had backfired spectacularly. 

Fulcrum was out of ideas. They had a long way to go before they got back to Cybertron, and the _Weak Anthropic Principle_ was a very small ship.

So, how much courage did he have? None? Oh. That was a shame, because he was edging across the medbay anyway. If he didn’t give himself time to think about how idiotic he was being -- er, well, it was still idiotic, but he could claim later that the pain blocked out common sense. 

Misfire was big and scary up close, even whip-scored and reeking of burnt paint. The arrested, slightly panicked look on his face as he stared into the parts bins made him a bit less intimidating. He kept flicking sidelong glances full of hope at the K-Con inching toward him. Murderers generally didn’t look at their victims that way. Or maybe they did. Predators were probably always hopeful that their prey would just walk on into their claws.

Fulcrum wasn’t thinking about that.

He also wasn’t acknowledging Misfire. He wasn’t ‘seeing’ him, and he wasn’t ‘hearing’ the continuous muffled babble being directed at the parts under the jet’s hands. The words were incoherent because of the gag, but the tone was abjectly apologetic and somewhat pleading. But Fulcrum wasn’t ‘hearing’ that. He was just standing there in medbay by himself, after all. According to Krok’s orders, there was nobody here. Nobody here to be afraid of. Nobody at all.

If he leaned his arm against nobody, just a bit, just a little because he wasn’t even close to ready for more than that…well, then nobody was there to know. Nobody shuddered silently in what looked like relief, because nobody was there and Fulcrum didn’t ‘see’ anything. 

Things weren’t okay. They wouldn’t be okay for a while. When he limped out of the medbay, nobody got left behind, and he was grateful for that fact.

Nobody forlornly watched him go.

********

[ * * * * * ]


	28. Prompt 28

**[* * * * *]  
 _Spinister - ”nightmares” & Misfire - “comfort_  
[* * * * *]**

The schedule was new and uncomfortable. When Misfire was on-duty, Fulcrum was not. When Fulcrum was on-duty, Misfire was scrubbing junk.

He didn’t have off-duty anymore. He had on-duty, away from Fulcrum, and punishment detail down in the cargo bay, away from Fulcrum. Misfire didn’t mind sorting and taking rust remover to the scrap onboard the W.A.P., but staying away from Fulcrum was driving him crazy. Not the good kind of crazy where a mech saw rainbows and shiny lights, either, but the dark and depressing kind of crazy. 

The _Weak Anthropic Principle_ was a small ship, yet Krok managed to keep Misfire and Fulcrum completely separated on it.

“I’m not putting any limitations on him,” the officer had said. He’d folded his hands on his desk and given Misfire a look devoid of anything but hard, cold judgment. “He can make his own call on when and where he’s able to deal with you. Until then, you don’t say scrap to him, you don’t go near him, you don’t even **look** at him funny. Got that?”

Misfire’s wings had been burnt in lines that blazed pain in terrible feedback loops through his cortex. It hadn’t hurt even a fraction of what four days of being shunned had put him through. The jet _needed_ interaction with people on the level of code-addiction, and it’d hurt even worse that _these_ mechs hadn’t acknowledged his existence for the past four days. The idea of Fulcrum shunning him further twisted something tight in his gut. But what could he do? 

“Yes, sir,” he’d mumbled toward the floor at his feet. 

He’d stuck to the schedule. The consequences for disobeying had been laid out in flat, uncompromising words said in a voice that made it extremely clear just how disappointed Krok was in him. Misfire had squirmed in shame under that voice. Krok had a way with words that could make a Decepticon long for a beating. Not that, uh, he even remotely wanted another one of those. 

So he did what he was told and followed the schedule. Once Krok was finished raking him over a last time, it was as if Misfire was forgiven. The other ‘Cons stopped treating him like a pariah. He was allowed to be around Grimlock again. The poor Dynobot hadn’t really gotten what had been going on for the past four days, and Krok had resorted to dragging the Autobot in the opposite direction of wherever Misfire was working. That was over now, however, and Misfire had to stop himself from hugging the big galoot out of sheer relief. Grimlock probably wouldn’t have cared, but the jet had some pride. Not a lot, at this point, but enough to not hug Autobots. 

Being allowed to talk with Crankcase, Spinister, and Krok again poured water on the fire that’d been eating his brain module. That was good, but unfortunately, it seemed that it was a grease fire. Pouring water on it just made it worse. Misfire was allowed to talk to everyone but the one mech he really needed to. Fulcrum wasn’t even a glimpse of orange plating out of the corner of his optic. The K-Con Misfire had (accidentally, it’d been an _accident_ ) almost killed was staying as far away from the jet as the ship made possible.

That pride Misfire had? It was rapidly withering into a whimpering pile in the corner of his mind. He just wanted to find Fulcrum and -- and --

And try not to terrify him. 

That problem kept him awake off-shift. He stared at the wall, curled on the berth, and thought over every angle of that problem. He tried to imagine himself in Fulcrum’s place. It was a bit of a mind-bender.

Okay, Fulcrum mindset. He was a coward. Total loser, right? Along came this big, tough warrior -- maybe that was exaggerating a little, but Fulcrum _was_ a coward, so probably not by much -- and starting doing…stuff. Stuff Misfire knew he shouldn’t have done, now, but hindsight was perfect, wasn’t it? Teasing him, except it didn’t much look like friendly teasing from the other side. Misfire was used to military units, where putting explosives in each other’s cockpits was considered good fun. If a mech didn’t like it, he got a bigger explosive and pranked people right back, and the survivors learned not to tease that mech. 

Fulcrum didn’t really do that kind of fun. He just sort of put up with getting picked on until he snapped and finally struck back at the bully. The bully being Misfire, who’d then gone on to do something that he -- he regretted. 

He’d known it was stupid as soon as he did it, and he’d panicked. Primus, had he panicked. He’d been yelling and trying to chase after the mech he’d just kicked off a _space ship_ , and hadn’t that just been the dumbest move in the history of ever? Seriously, who was stupid enough to try chasing a floater down on foot? Who was stupid enough to kick a crewmate off a ship in the first place?

Misfire, that’s who.

No wonder Fulcrum was avoiding him. From a Fulcrum perspective, things had escalated from teasing to attempted murder in a flash. Everything that was already scary to a coward was suddenly twice as life-threatening, including Misfire. 

He was only allowed to recharge when Fulcrum wasn’t, which meant he shared the officers’ quarters with Crankcase or Spinister depending on the shift. Ha, not that recharge wasn’t a bad joke. He’d have gotten up if Krok wouldn’t just assign him more work to keep him busy. Instead, Misfire turned his back on the others so his optics wouldn’t give him away while he spent most of his recharge time soaking his spark in misery. It had the predictable result of him being exhausted and brittle-sounding to even his own audios. The others were pointedly not noticing the way he trailed off into random mumbling in the middle of a chattered monologue, or how he was suddenly on-time for every shift. 

He wasn’t some delicate Autobot who had to gush about his _feelings_ or anything. He wasn’t losing sleep over stuff like that. 

…well, maybe. Because he kept trying to figure out how to make Fulcrum stop being afraid of him, but Fulcrum was justified in being afraid of him, so what the frag could Misfire do about that? 

He tried writing notes, but they all came out looking like he was trying to make his actions look excusable. He mushed his best few together and wrote them out onto a flat piece of scrap metal, figuring that perhaps sincerity would count for something. Krok read through the rambling letter, however, and just given the jet a scathing glare. That was a ‘no’ on handing it on to Fulcrum, then. 

Crankcase laughed in his face when he asked the other Decepticon to, well, pass along that Misfire was really sorry and just wanted to talk and please? 

The jet preferred that response to Spinister’s. Spinister nodded when the Misfire asked him to say something to Fulcrum, but it wasn’t a nod of agreement. It was the thoughtful sort of nod that came right before a medical specialist went on to describe in great detail how exactly how most floaters died, from vent system failure to frozen fluids bursting their tubes. He recited statistics on likelihood of survival based on Fulcrum’s frametype. He asked the flummoxed jet to picture what the orange-and-tan mech would look as a shattered assembly of brittle metal and frozen fluids drifting endlessly through space. 

Misfire had wanted to purge. The surgeon had patted him on the shoulder and politely refused to pass on a message. Misfire hadn’t tried pestering him to change his mind. He didn’t want more mental images of -- of _that_. 

He’d come to grips with Fulcrum’s perspective on what he’d done. Krok had forced him to see what it looked like the perspective of a unit that actually relied on each other. Misfire had been gradually routing out the part of him that still thought of these Decepticons as transitionary, just a collection of mechs loosely hanging out together until they got to Cybertron. He’d killed a lot of Autobots and even Decepticons in his time, and he’d gotten away with it because he didn’t care and he could talk his way out of most of the consequences. Well, Krok wasn’t letting him get away with scrap, and Misfire was fragging well starting to get attached.

It wasn’t until Spinister painted out Fulcrum’s death in painfully specific terms that Misfire really realized that he’d nearly killed the K-Con. He hadn’t played a prank. He hadn’t screwed up something as small as sending someone screaming to the medbay with graphite powder in their joint lubricant. He’d almost killed the ‘Con with the impressive chin and exasperated smile. Not a nameless Autobot it was his job to kill or a Decepticon who could be replaced by a transfer from another unit. He’d nearly murdered _that_ mech. The one he kind of liked to hang out with and now couldn’t think about without imagining a corpse.

Yeah, Misfire wasn’t getting a whole lot of recharge anymore. 

Across the officers’ quarters, now, Spinister stirred on his berth. Misfire turned his head a little and dimmed his optics. Spinister rustled again, rotor thumping against the berth padding. There was a mumble that sounded kind of alarmed, and the jet glanced over his shoulder. Spinister mumbled again. It looked like he was pawing at the berth.

His back and wings were slowly repairing, but Misfire still couldn’t recharge on his back yet. He probably wouldn’t be able to for a long while. Krok had a mean hand on the electro-whip. The jet went through the awkward contortions required to turn over onto his other side without moving his wings a lot. “Spinny?”

The rotary mech’s hands clenched, and his optics flickered fitfully. “…cut!...an’ frr…”

Recharge echoes. Misfire knew what those felt like. “Spinister?”

“Turn it!” One leg kicked. It drew up and slowly slid flat again. “…’ind..ur?”

He didn’t want to touch Spinister until the mech was awake. The surgeon was prone to violence first, thought never. “Hey! Spinister! Wake up!”

Red optics lit brilliantly. “Not like that!” Spinister shouted, hurling himself upright and flailing. “Not…what?” He glanced around in bewilderment. “I forgot what it was like,” he said when he saw Misfire looking back at him, as if the jet had a slagging clue what he was on about. 

“Happens to me all the time,” Misfire reassured him smoothly. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know. Knowing Spinister, the surgeon would forget that he’d forgotten anything in a few minutes. The jet smiled and turned on all his cockpit instrumentation, turning his canopy glass into a kaleidoscope of glittering colors.

Bam. He could package it. Instant mesmerized mech: just add Spinister.

“Go back to sleep,” Misfire told him after long enough that the surgeon couldn’t possibly remember any echo dredged up by defragment. 

Spinister obediently lay down again. “Okay. You, too?” 

“Yeah. Sure.” The jet watched him cycle back down into recharge. “Sure, I’ll get on that.”

Just not anytime soon.

**[* * * * *]  
**


	29. Prompt 29

**[* * * * *]  
 _Misfire - “first date”_  
[* * * * *]**

Fulcrum wasn’t getting any more courageous. Misfire didn’t really know why he’d thought the techie would. Irrepressible optimism, maybe. Regardless, the K-Class mech still kept half the ship between himself and Misfire, for varied and justifiable reasons.

No matter how much Misfire wished he could deny those reasons, they were all true. From a certain perspective, Misfire _had_ sort of, kind of, maybe, in a way tried to kill him. A little. If a mech wanted to look at it that way. Which Fulcrum did, apparently. As did Krok, Spinister, and even Crankcase. _Crankcase_ , of all mechs!

Misfire preferred to look at it as a big misunderstanding. He’d screwed up, yeah, okay, he could admit that. He’d scared the bolts off the techie. That’d been…er, alright, that’d been intentional. The murder attempt hadn’t been so intentional. He wished he could somehow make everyone else see that.

Not even everybody else. Just Fulcrum would be okay. Misfire wanted to apologize, or at least try to, but Krok had made it excruciatingly clear that getting near the K-Con without said K-Con’s permission was liable to get Misfire’s wings whipped to ribbons -- and worse, ten more days shunned. 

But being avoided was getting old. More than old, it was making Misfire’s back itch, up between his wings where he couldn’t scratch it. It wasn’t even a physical thing. It was the kind of itch a targeting laser made if it stayed on a mech’s back long enough. In a normal unit, that’s what Misfire could expect. Put a unit-mate’s life in danger, and he could expect a smack or two, maybe a beating in a dark side corridor, or something as simple as a shot snapped off when he dared turn his back on the wrong mech. The itch was reflex telling him that Fulcrum was going to get even with him. 

Problem was that it was the _wrong_ reflex. Krok’s unit wasn’t a normal one. Nobody was going to try to throw him out an airlock like his last unit had. Misfire had finally gotten the difference between his former units and this one pounded through his head somewhere between Krok flogging him and the five days when he’d have given anything to have someone speak to him directly instead of at whatever piece of bulkhead he was standing in front of. This unit wasn’t normal, and his reflexes were all wrong for it. 

The plating between Misfire’s wings itched, but Fulcrum wasn’t going to shoot at him. Fulcrum wasn’t going to do anything that brought the slender technician anywhere near the taller, bulkier, more heavily armored, armed, and therefore _dangerous_ jet. Fulcrum wasn’t interested in revenge. Okay, he might have been -- Decepticons, after all -- but the K-Con was primarily concerned with _survival_. Misfire had tried to kill him, and Fulcrum’s biggest concern when anywhere remotely near the purple Decepticon was now self-preservation. 

It was funny, in a skewed way. Misfire could smile weakly about it when he thought on it long enough. Fulcrum had been willing to die for the unit, but he was still a coward through and through. Avoiding death by fellow Scavenger was high on his priority list. When Misfire wasn’t refusing blame through sheer moronitude, he understood that. And it was funny. The traitor had flung himself at the D.J.D. and the torturous death they’d wanted to inflict on him, but he actively ran away from Misfire and his Primus-fragged explanation about what had happened. 

Excuses, to be honest. Possibly that was why Krok refused to redo the schedule, yet. All of Misfire’s attempts to rehearse an apology turned into monologue about how it wasn’t his fault. 

However, even Misfire eventually got tired of dodging responsibility. He could only blame the victim so long before guilt smacked him upside the head. The reason Fulcrum kept single-mindedly dodging him was the same reason Misfire had felt terrible when the rest of the unit looked through him like he wasn’t there: betrayal felt worse when it came from somebody he’d trusted.

Not that the Scavengers trusted each other! Nope, not going to happen. Decepticons didn’t do trust. They didn’t feel guilty, either. Decepticons weren’t supposed to feel fear, either but it seemed Fulcrum hadn’t bothered reading the regs on that one. Who the frag had written that in, anyway? Emotions didn’t follow rules. Seriously, somebody in High Command needed to rethink the regulations. Although Misfire could probably slip guilt in under Krok’s bizarre team building exercises, so maybe the regs weren’t so bad. 

Yeah, he was doing it again. He was trying not to think about how he owed an apology to Fulcrum. Misfire did avoidance like a pro. The only way to stop him from talking his way around important issues was, well, forcing the issue, usually through violence. Krok’s method had worked, too. Not nicely, but the issues weren’t very nice and neither were Decepticons, so that’s probably why it’d worked. 

Refusing to put up with Misfire excusing himself from all and sundry worked as well, or so he’d found after Crankcase, Spinister, and Krok had shut him down with glares, far too much information, and a lecture respectively. Ouch. They weren’t shunning him anymore, but their version of letting accidental attempted murder go was less _‘forgive and forget’_ than _‘let Fulcrum forgive you, and we’ll think about forgetting.’_

At least Misfire hoped that was it. Because he was out of theories, otherwise.

His current theory was leading him to do something very stupid. See, despite what other people thought, Misfire was perfectly capable of understanding when there was a bad idea on the table. Hadn’t he suggested they run away from the scary haunted ship with bleeding walls? Yes? Exactly. So he _knew_ what he was doing was going to get him in large amounts of trouble, plus a heaping side-helping of pain, but he was doing it anyway because his ability to judge consequences tended to erode the more he talked to himself instead of someone else. 

It was generally a bad thing to leave Misfire to his own devices. He’d talk himself into believing that getting Grimlock drunk was a brilliant idea if no one reminded him that reality was _way over there_ , and he should get back in touch, it’d missed him while he was gone. 

Other mechs needed groups to disappear into or stand out from, using them to define their individuality. Misfire had plenty of individuality. He needed people to keep himself grounded. When he was alone, there was nothing to make him think twice. He kept talking instead of stopping for some self-reflection. He talked his way out, around, or through any situation rather than acknowledging things like right, wrong, crazy smart, or --

“Really, really stupid,” he mumbled to himself, wings flat against the wall next to the door. Inside the cargobay, metal clinked and shuffled. “Shouldn’t be doing this, nope, but if I don’t do it, frag if I know when I’ll get the chance again. I’ve **got** to do it now, or I’m never gonna get to talk to him. This is stupid. Why in Flywheels’ name won’t he just talk with me? I mean, it’s ridiculous that I’ve got to resort to this. It’s not that hard to just say, hey Misfire, yeah, sure, let’s have a chat. Was that so hard? No. Obviously if I don’t do something, we’re just going to sit on our afts and let this slag get worse like a rust infection. It’s up to me, because he’s such a coward we’re not going to do scrap all without me taking the initiative. That’s me: bold and straightforward.”

Boldly waiting until everyone was elsewhere. Straightfowardly sneaking off while Krok and Spinister were busy holding makeshift bracers in place for Crankcase to weld across the now-defunct loading ramp. It was a job that had to be done or the ramp would unlock and fall down again. They’d lost a good portion of the ship’s atmosphere when that had happened. Departing the W.A.P. was now done by airlock or not at all, because the hydraulics that operated the loading ramp had given out and nearly sucked Grimlock out into space when they’d gone.

“Frankly, I’m amazed they’ve lasted this long,” Crankcase had said when they’d finally pulled it closed again. He’d had his head halfway into the wall looking into the hydraulic systems. “Huh. Anyone want a shower?”

Krok would have gone over to look at the damage himself if he hadn’t had a Dynobot sitting on the floor at his feet, arms wrapped around his waist. “We could all use one,” he’d said sourly, having given up on prying Grimlock loose anytime soon. “Why?” 

Grimlock had snuffled, still running hot from fear and confusion, and the Decepticon officer probably hadn’t even noticed he absently patted the Autobot on the head. Krok had been the one to skid out onto the unstable loading ramp to yank the Dynobot to safety, which hadn’t surprised anyone but the officer himself. Grimlock had insisted on staying attached ever since, despite Spinister pronouncing him fine other than a few frozen fluid lines. Misfire had pretended great interest in Crankcase’s work in order to keep from snickering too loudly.

Their mechanic had pulled himself out of the hole and shaken his head. “That’s not hydraulic fluid in there. It’s full of piston-grease, but if we can rig up a filter of some kind, we’ve got ourselves some solvent for the washracks.”

That would be fantastic as soon as they dared open up the hydraulic systems, which would be approximately the minute the other three Decepticons finished welding. A process that would go a lot faster if Misfire hadn’t tiptoed away while they were trying to get the welder working. He was a mech on a mission, however, and there was something he had to do.

Mainly stand outside the cargobay convincing himself that this was a good idea. It really wasn’t, but he was on the verge of believing his own hype. 

One thing in his favor, despite how Krok sighed about it: Misfire didn’t give up.

Fulcrum would have phrased it slightly differently. In fact, he had. Repeatedly. Misfire didn’t know how to leave well enough alone. 

So when Misfire keyed the door open and slipped inside as soon as he could, the K-Con didn’t even spare a moment on surprise. He’d probably been expecting this all along. Fulcrum did contingency planning, it seemed. That was something Krok liked about him, but Misfire wasn’t so happy about it. The jet had vaguely expected Fulcrum to freeze up or maybe take off running -- not that it'd do anyone any good to try and outrun somebody with jet propulsion on his side -- but he hadn't expected this.

"Uh..." He'd stopped in his tracks, but now the flyer ventured forward somewhat tentatively to tap on the K-Con's side. "Aw, come on, that's not fair."

Fulcrum remained stubbornly in altmode. It broke about four shipboard regulations, but what was Misfire going to do, report him? That would require confessing to Krok that he’d approached Fulcrum in the first place, and that'd get his plating stripped. Plus ten days of shunning, which Misfire was painfully aware that everyone knew he couldn't stand. So, yeah. Fulcrum transforming on board the ship? Misfire couldn't do scrap about it.

Besides tap on his casing, that was. Armor-grade casing, the equivalent of Misfire's toughest plating. The jet would have to pull out a gun to get through that, and that sort of ran counter to everything he was trying to accomplish, here.

So he wanly patted the bomb down like he was looking for a manual transformation button, but he knew Fulcrum had him by the bearings on this one. Clever little technician. "Come on, Fulcrum," he whined as he jiggled stabilizer fins in an effort to be persuasive. "I just want to talk. Please?"

The stabilizers flicked irritably out of his hands. Fulcrum stayed silent.

Fortunately for Misfire, needling under a mech's plating with words was far easier than physically prying a mech out of altmode. "Why you gotta be like this? I'm not doing anything to you! It's not like I'm going to drag you across the room and toss you out the airlock. I could, y'know. There's an airlock right over there." He pointed helpfully, then realized what he'd just done as the stabilizers flicked in a panicked pattern. "Wait, wait, that wasn't a threat! Honest, I didn't mean to sound like I'd throw you off the ship if you don't talk to me!"

Wow, that sounded even worse. 

Frag, frag, frag. Um. "I'm not going to hurt you?" Misfire said in a small, hesitant voice. "I didn't -- Fulcrum, come **on** , I wouldn't do that!"

The silence following those words held an entire conversation. 

Misfire wasn't usually one for listening to the subtleties found in a speaking silence. He was more one to coast obliviously through what everyone pointedly didn't say aloud. Except that he'd been thinking everything Fulcrum wasn't saying, and it was hard to not hear the silence this time.

Fulcrum had no way to know Misfire was sincere. He didn't know that the jet wouldn't hurt him. Ah, to qualify that general statement: Misfire wouldn’t hurt him if it could be avoided. Decepticons, after all. Anyway, yeah, Misfire was as trustworthy as any Decepticon, and probably far less so than the one sitting in front of him.

As a consequence of that untrustworthiness, the K-Class mech was going to wait for him to go away, then resume work like he'd never been there. It was life done around dangerous obstacles, like an unarmed squad of support personnel working in enemy territory. The job had to get done; Autobot patrols were merely something to be avoided. For technicians like Fulcrum, trigger-happy impulsive Decepticons had been tossed into the avoidance category.

Misfire was being shunned. Again. Still. 

No wonder it was driving him crazy.

He stared at the bomb for a minute more, but he only had a limited amount of time before Krok caught on that he hadn't gone looking for more scrap to weld onto the loading ramp. When that time limit ran out, he was going to be in so much trouble. He, uh, hadn’t quite worked out how he was going to convince Krok not to kick his gears off their tracks. Misfire could recognize how stupid that was, but he’d sort of talked himself into assuming the Inspiration Seeker would come down up and boot him in the head. 

Overconfidence was going to get him scrapped yet.

After thinking about his options (it came down to bad and worse, really), he decided that the means justified the end. The measly few options got chucked as he decided to just…talk. In the grand scheme of his stupidity thus far, that registered pretty low on the doofus scale. 

*** ***  
 _by Shibara_  
 *** ***

It took some grunting and scuffing his wing on the floor when his slipped in a patch of used oil, but Misfire rolled Fulcrum over to the nearest wall and levered him upright. The stabilizers twitched in alarm, and the jet had to prop him up when the movements made the tubular K-Con wobble. He eyed Fulcrum doubtfully -- bombs weren't meant to stand vertically, apparently -- and sat with his back against the mech to keep him from falling back to the floor.

He could almost feel Fulcrum's proximity scanners pinging everything in range frantically. "I'm still on the unit frequency," the techie's voice said from near the nose of the bomb. The warning came out completely neutral.

Misfire winced a little. Fulcrum’s belief in his good intentions could be summed up by that one statement. "Airlock's way over there," he mumbled as he scooched his aft around to get a better seat. "You’re safe. I'm not going to throw you out. Promise. I know you don't believe me, but I'm not. Okay? Okay." He vented out slowly, optics and cheeks tightening. For all that he was a nonstop chatterbox, words were oddly hard to dig up right now. 

So he borrowed a few from Crankcase. What the pilot didn't know couldn't hurt him, right? Knowing Crankcase, he'd complain anyway, but such was life with the universe's grumpiest Decepticon. 

"Sorry's just a word," Misfire said, forcibly steering his thoughts back to the issue at hand. "I say it every time I do something. And I, er, kind of do a lot of stuff, so I say 'sorry' a lot." He bit his lip, glad that he was facing away from Fulcrum. He didn't know if the K-Con had optical sensors outside his casing, but keeping his face turned away right now was likely the best option. "Riiiiiight. I don't. Y'know. Say I'm sorry. I try to avoid it, really." There was a quiet sound, almost like someone had snorted in wry agreement, but that might have been his imagination. 

It wouldn't surprise him if Fulcrum had caught on to how he avoided apologizing, however. If he talked a whole lot and annoyed or confused everyone with words, generally they didn't realize he'd managed to eel out of actually apologizing. Apologies were nasty, invasive things. The words were easy, but mouthing even empty words still implied taking blame. Guilt and responsibility were slippery things that could do things to a mech's spark if he let them slither into his core. 

Misfire had a slither-proof core. Mostly. This unit had put a few cracks in his blithe shell.

Decepticons weren't supposed to get those cracks. Decepticons didn’t feel guilt or fear. The two Decepticons sitting here in the cargo bay were studiously not feeling either emotion. Fulcrum had just up and spontaneously taken a work break. In his impervious altmode. Like any mech would, right? Because he felt like it. And Misfire just felt like sitting with his back against that altmode while he confessed his sins. 

If anyone believed that little fiction, they probably believed that the engine block happened to make random noises that sounded like a voice, too. Because it was technically true on the surface, but there had to be a better explanation lurking underneath. Although a NeoPrimalist Dark Lord was about as difficult to believe in as a Decepticon made miserable by regret. 

The jet reset his vocalizer uncomfortably and shimmied his wings against Fulcrum. "So okay. Okay? Okay. I'm sorry. And it's just words, I **get** that, but I'm really sorry and Krok's -- okay. Yeah. I'm going to think carefully about doing more stuff in the future, or he's gonna punch me so hard my optics will look out my afterburners. That's, um. That's a solid thing to believe in, right? You don't have to believe me," Primus knew he couldn't make the coward believe a single word he said, "but you can believe that Krok's gonna clock me if I even trip somebody from now on. It’s a pretty concrete thing to believe in. He's kind of big on following through on things like that, if you haven't noticed."

This time, he knew he didn't imagine the reaction. There was a soft clunk inside the bomb casing, as if hands had involuntarily gone to a fresh weld-scar. Krok had punished both of them thoroughly, and not because they'd violated the regs. He'd done it because they'd lied to _him_ , because Misfire had tried to kill one of _his_ crew, and they had let _him_ down. Krok took his duty seriously, and unit business became intensely personalized because of it. Which had provoked a strange reaction in the grunts dragged into his makeshift unit so far. Instead of getting the frag out of there and never looking back, they’d personalized his involvement right back at him. 

Misfire couldn’t take being avoided by Fulcrum any longer, but even now the back of his head was nervously chanting about how cornering the K-Con this way was a huge fragging mistake. He was going to get in trouble for disobeying his commanding officer, true, but worse that that? He was going to _disappoint_ Krok, and Misfire didn’t have a clue how to handle giving a hullnut about what his officer thought about him. As the person inside the rank, anyway. He truly was not looking forward to facing Krok after this, because yeah, he was going to be punished. But there were also going to be _words_ said. There might even be multiple syllables in each one, and Krok would use them to flay Misfire to the struts well before the whip even got brought out. 

When an officer with Krok's sort of honor system took over a soldier’s life, that soldier had better get used to threats and promises being real. Fulcrum could doubt every word Misfire blathered, but the K-Con had to know he could have some faith in Krok. He had to. There was no room for doubt after what Krok had done to them both. Smelt Misfire if he ever doubted the officer again.

...it was frankly eerie that he held that level of confidence in anyone calling himself a Decepticon, especially an officer. This scavenged unit of weirdos was getting to him.

His wings flexed back on their hinges, scraping gently against rounded artillery casing, and Misfire pulled up his knees to rest his arms on. Yeah. Yeah, it was. 

Huffing out air, the flyer put his chin on his forearm and frowned absently at nothing. "We can't keep this up, pinhead. Loser. Fulcrum!" He winced as his mind caught up with his mouth. Sometimes, it was honestly easier to remember nicknames than a mech's real designation. "Fulcrum. Right. Uh, so, well, maybe you can. I don't know. You -- I mean, you act like this is okay." He paused, hoping for some sort of reaction from the K-Con at his back, but Fulcrum was silent. Misfire's shoulder's slumped slightly. "It's not okay. I don't like -- slaggit, how can you keep avoiding me?!" he flared, wings hiking up as his temper finally lit, and he half-turned to confront the bomb. "I'm not the fragging D.J.D.! You don't have to keep **running** from me!"

"How do I know that?!" Fulcrum snapped right back. "You threw me **off the ship**!"

"I didn't mean to!"

"Oh, go suck a tailpipe, like **frag** you didn't. You tried to kill me, Misfire!"

It was surreal having an argument with a piece of ordnance. Misfire was used to talking at all kinds of Decepticons in their altmodes, but not much ammunition. Then again, he’d also recharged on top of this particular live explosive. He had _reasons_ for arguing with him. "I did not!"

"Did to!"

"Did not!"

"I am **not** having this discussion with you," Fulcrum grumbled, a few back struts short of a full snarl. "You tried to kill me, and no way in the Pit am I giving you a chance to finish the job. **Yes** , I **do** have to keep running. I'm going to keep running until I get back to Cybertron, and then I'm never going to see you again so I can stop running and be **safe**."

“You can’t **do** that!” The words were out before Misfire had a chance to think about why he was saying them, but they were obvious in hindsight. He turned and hammered his fist against -- okay, he was hitting an explosive repeatedly. He didn’t think a lot of things through, sometimes.

“Why the frag not? Give me one good reason why I can’t.” The technician was arguing with him, the more heavily armored and armed Decepticon, so there probably wasn’t a whole lot of intelligence between the two of them at the moment. Lots of emotion, but not so much in terms of actual thought. Although Misfire couldn’t put a finger out what Fulcrum’s tone was supposed to convey besides anger. Hope, maybe? Hope for what? “Why the frag can’t I get as far away from you as physically possible? The war’s over. I’m going to get a proper job, and it’s not going to involve the military even a little! Scrap, I’m going to make sure it doesn’t even involve flyers. No jets at all!”

Misfire’s spark squeezed at that, and he didn’t get why. That…kind of hurt. “You can’t do that,” he repeated, confident that he was right. “Krok won’t let you.”

Fulcrum didn’t respond for a second, but he recovered and razzed from inside the safety of the casing. “Look, either the war’s over and I’m free to do what I want, or it’s still on and I’m a convicted criminal on the run. Either way, it’s out of Krok’s hands as soon as we’re home!”

“No it’s not!” he protested on automatic. “It’s Krok!”

There was a long minute of silence, as if Fulcrum were waiting for him to elaborate. Elaboration wasn’t really needed. _‘Because Krok’_ was all the explanation required for why Fulcrum wasn’t going anywhere once they reached Cybertron. Krok didn’t know how to let go. The occasional click of him rebooting the communication suite still followed him through the ship. The W.A.P. had short-range communications up, but the long-range suite kept crashing. Krok was going to reboot it until his message finally got through. Until he finally got a response the rest of the Scavengers knew he’d never get.

It was why the odd squeeze at the base of Misfire’s spark was more hurt than panic. There’d been a brief flare of that as he’d looked into a future sans one quirky coward, but Krok would move a mountain of corpses to get to his old unit; no way in the Pit would he let any of his adopted unit run away, even if the war was over. 

But the fact that Fulcrum _wanted_ to leave woke a couple of unidentifiable things to rattle around under Misfire’s thoughts. He wasn’t thinking about them, not really, but they were there. He didn’t like how they felt down there. He wished they’d go away.

He wished Fulcrum hadn’t said that. 

He wished Fulcrum didn’t mean it.

He wished he didn’t care.

“Look, we have to stop this. **You** have to stop. I mean, yeah. I have to stop, but you have to stop first!” Misfire grimace and banged his head against Fulcrum’s casing, watching his mouth run away from him but unable to fix this without talking yet more. “I promise -- swear! -- I’m not going to try and kill you. Um.” His wings drooped. “Again.” There was a stirring inside the casing under his forehelm when he admitted that, and the flyer swallowed a lump of something more miserable than irritation at the other Decepticon’s fear. “Okay. So you’ve got to stop running away from me, and we’ve…hey, loser, we’re stuck together. We kinda have to get along.”

“Get along.” So neutral. That didn’t have the sound of someone considering the idea. “I’m getting along just fine like this. You’re the one barging in and threatening me.”

That got a wince. From a certain perspective -- say, the perspective of an unarmed, reformatted technician -- that did seem like what Misfire had done. With the whole trapping him in a room with no exit, then sitting against him so he couldn’t run away. Yeah. All that.

“But it’s **not** fine!” Misfire talked faster as he got more nervous, like he was trying to cram more words in before Fulcrum said no. “You know it’s only going to be a matter of time before Krok makes us work together again. I can’t pull shifts with him and Crankcase forever. There are only five of us, and Grimlock doesn’t really count, we can’t even get him to stop drawing on the walls anymore, but Crankcase is getting sick of me. He works better with Spinister than me. You **know** he’s fed up with dealing with this slag, right? As fed up as he gets about everything, but seriously, he’s grouchier than ever. We can only use him as a buffer zone for so long before he stuffs me into a missile tube and launches me toward the nearest star. That’s, uh, not a good thing,” he added, in case Fulcrum thought it was poetic justice or something. “So unless you want Krok to force us into the universe’s most awesomely awkward shift together, we should -- well, uh.” He lifted his head to look at the bomb, then scratched the top of his helm uncomfortably. “Make up.”

The aura of disbelief radiating off Fulcrum was thick enough to be felt. Misfire plowed through it to continue.

“I don’t mean we should start taking shifts together! I don’t, uh, no offense, but I think you’d probably run screaming if I waved my arms wrong.” He gestured in illustration and wondered if the K-Con had any way to see what he’d just done. 

“I’m not **that** afraid of you,” was muttered resentfully under the casing. “Might just hide for a couple days.” 

The Scavengers all tended toward realism. Misfire kind of liked that about them. Survival came before pride, which meant that urging the option of retreat didn’t get the dirty looks he’d gotten in his last two units. He wasn’t a coward himself, not really, but he still believed openly acknowledging a healthy aversion toward scary things like, say, death? That was a good thing. Fulcrum was a coward, but at least he admitted that. It’d almost become just his thing, sort of how Crankcase’s grumpiness and Spinister’s Spinister-ness were their things. 

The flyer held back a grin at the bomb. “Yeah, but that’d still make a shift together slagging terrible. I think we should go on a date before that happens.”

The reaction this time almost tipped the standing bomb over. Misfire scrambled to prop him up, which put his head next to the casing right as Fulcrum apparently smacked the inside and yelled, “Are you **kidding** me?!”

He jerked his head back and eyed the casing warily. “…no?” That was inordinately disproportionate reaction to his proposal, he felt. “I thought it might help?” It came out tentative because the bomb was still rocking back and forth as stabilizers flexed in sheer indignation. 

“It might help. **It might help.** Are you insane? You’re clearly insane,” Fulcrum ranted. “How is a date with my attempted murderer going to help?!”

For all that Misfire talked so much, there seemed to be a lot of miscommunication going on. “I thought…a set place and time that we could meet would be, y’know, a controlled setting,” he explained slowly, still looking at the casing as if it’d explain why Fulcrum had all but exploded in his face. “No risks. I thought you’d prefer that. Everybody would know where we were, and what we were doing. Krok could even chaperone, if you want. I don’t mind. It’s just that Crankcase said he could get the washracks working now that we’ve got some solvent, so we’re all going to be taking turns anyway, and I’m not saying we should scrub each other’s backs -- it’d be nice if you would, my wings are a pain to twist around, but no pressure! I wouldn’t say no, but -- right, anyway, but Grimlock’s probably going to need help getting cleaned up. We could meet in the washracks with maybe Krok if it’d make you feel better, and we could wrestle Grimmy until he’s clean or starts getting bitey, and then you could run away again. And Crankcase wants to get that generator back up, so it’s going to take a couple people to go up under the hull plating to release the clamps, but Crankcase would supervise if Krok told him to, and I could ask Krok if it’d make you feel better to have another person along.” He let go of Fulcrum cautiously, but the bomb had gone still as Misfire kept talking. Purple wings pricked up hopefully. That wasn’t flat-out refusal! “And -- and I thought that, um, maybe I could haul some of the scrap I’m cleaning up to the bridge when you’re pulling that shift with Spinister. I mean, Krok said I’m on punishment detail, but he didn’t really specify where I had to serve it.”

“We can’t avoid this forever. It just seemed like a good idea to help you,” he finished lamely. 

Help Fulcrum deal with him, his attempted murderer. Help rebuild a teensy bit of shattered trust -- not that Decepticons had that, but maybe the Scavengers did. This unit was scraped up out of the faction’s leftovers. Maybe they’d picked up some nonregulation emotions while they were piecing themselves together. 

Come _on_. Just give him a _chance_ , pinhe -- Fulcrum! Yeah.

A skeptical snort echoed inside the bomb casing. “You’ll ‘help’ me or Krok will tell me to suck it up, is that it? How kind of you, Misfire. Way to take one for the team.” 

His wings wilted down again. “You know he’s going to make us work together. Call it proactive cooperation. We can do it ourselves, or he’ll beat us into shape.” He shuddered. “With **words**.” The horror of Krok’s lectures kept growing in his mind the more of them he had to endure.

Silence revisited. It was the guest who kept staining the furniture with grease blotches and shed rust everywhere. Misfire hated it, but he kept his mouth shut and tolerated it. He wasn’t sure what else he could add to convince the tech-head this was a good idea. Or at least an idea they should try out, because the good ideas had stopped around the time Misfire went way, way too far out on the hull of the W.A.P. Every idea from here on out had been repair attempts on that horrible blunder, and such ideas were correspondingly lousy because the damage couldn’t be repaired. Misfire knew what the war had done to people. That kind of slag couldn’t be welded up and sent back into battle good as new. The best they could hope for was controlling how much worse this got, if they were lucky.

Of course he could say more -- Misfire could always say more -- but he sort of felt like he shouldn’t. He’d been waiting for Fulcrum to find some courage, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen on its own. With Fulcrum, a mech had to force him to the brink to get real decisiveness out of him. It was a matter of hoping he jumped the right way after that.

It belatedly occurred to the flyer that adding something personal might have helped. He’d framed everything in terms of benefiting the unit or preventing Krok from taking over. He…actually hadn’t said anything about how he wanted to just have a chance to talk with the K-Con, or be around Fulcrum without having to coerce the mech.

Oops.

The unit frequency suddenly clicked opened, and he flinched as Krok barked, *”Misfire! Report!”* 

“Uh…” He sat forward, leaving Fulcrum’s altmode in order to reluctantly get to his feet. “What do you want me to report on? The condition of my back? Because you could probably ask Spinister about them, but thanks for asking -- “

*”Misfire.”* Was that a growl? That sounded like a growl. Misfire fidgeted, shoulders hunching as officer ire transmitted clearly over the frequency. *”Report where are you, and what are you doing.”*

So much for dodging the question. Those demands were too specific to talk his way around. 

He was in so much fragging trouble. “I’m, well, I’m in the cargobay!” His mouth stretched in a wide, desperate smile even as his optics darted around looking for an escape route that wasn’t going to miraculously appear. “Crankcase said he needed parts, right? So I’m looking for parts!” He was now, anyway. Just look at him search for parts! Misfire took two steps toward the closest heap of junk and industriously poked at it. “Haven’t found anything yet, but I’ll -- “

*”Misfire.”*

Oh, that was Krokian disapproval if he’d ever heard it. “Yeah?”

*”Are you, by any chance,”* Krok said in an unnaturally even voice, *”in the cargobay that Fulcrum just happened to be assigned to organize this shift?”*

Trouble. Mounds of it, lying about Misfire’s thrusters. 

His voice went high-pitched and full of false cheer. “Yep! How about that? What a coincidence!” He was already scrap metal, but some part of him still wanted to try slipping complete and conscious disobedience by Krok. 

Who wasn’t falling for it in the slightest. *“I give you orders, Misfire, with the expectation that **you will obey** them.”*

“I did!” Because rejecting reality had worked the last fifty times he’d tried it? That wasn’t going to stop Misfire from trying his utmost to substitute his own version. “You said I couldn’t go anywhere near Fulcrum, and I’m, er,” he took another step to the side and smiled so hard at nothing that his face hurt a little, “I’m not **near** him, per se. Just in the **vicinity** of him, really, and -- and -- “ The Seeker of Inspiration drop-kicked his cortex. “And you said I couldn’t go near him unless he was okay with me being around him again!”

Pleading red optics turned toward the bomb still propped against the wall. “Fulcrum’s okay with me being here, right, Fulcrum?” 

There was a pause. It was the kind of pause wherein a Decepticon’s commanding officer went fact-checking on that white lie a mech just told. It was a bad kind of pause. Fact-checking lies typically didn’t end well for the liar. Misfire bit his bottom lip and stared pitifully at the K-Con. His flaps flicked up and down in anxious little motions he couldn’t stop as the seconds ticked past and he waited for the verdict. Except he didn’t know why he had any hope at all that the verdict might be positive. Why had he put Fulcrum in the spotlight when the K-Con wanted nothing to do with him? Oh frag, oh frag, oh frag --

Grit skittered out from under the bomb’s stabilizers as Fulcrum sighed deeply. Misfire skipped back a pace as the K-Class technician unfolded jerkily, stumbling once before both his feet hit the floor, but the quick movement didn’t provoke panic. Some fear, maybe, but Fulcrum stayed with his back to the wall. He just straightened up to face Misfire head-on. They stared at each other across the short distance, slender technician and tall flyer, and no matter different they looked, their bodies held equal amounts of caution at that moment. 

Yellow and red optics met, and Fulcrum was the one who looked away first. His forearm commlink pickup clicked open. “I’m fine. We talked,” he said shortly into it. “No. He didn’t,” there was the barest hesitation, and Misfire’s optics ticked wider as Fulcrum committed to a white lie of his own, “do anything else.”

His own commlink clicked as Krok opened up the line to him again. *”Don’t think I won’t be talking to you about this later, Misfire.”* His helm ducked under the stern tone. *”You still ran off in the middle of helping us, and that’d delayed completing this job. Get your aft back up here before we use your wings to finish it!”*

“Okay, okay! I’m on my way!” The frequency cut off, and he shrugged. “In a minute. Pinhead…”

“You came in because you forgot I was here, I said it was alright, you stayed,” Fulcrum interrupted him, voice hurried and harsh. “We talked. That’s it.”

…hey, in for a murder, in for the cover-up. They were lie-for-lie right now, up against an officer who took that offense _really_ seriously. It was less camaraderie than terror of Krok that had them working together, but Misfire would take it. 

“Right,” he agreed, hands spreading slowly apart as he took a single step forward. He was trying not to startle the shorter mech. “Sooooo. About that date?”

Fulcrum glanced down as a black foot attempted to slide another step closer. Caught, Misfire grinned sheepishly and brought his foot back to stand on. “One ‘date,’” the techie decided after what looked like a quick internal debate. “Just to clean Grimlock up. With Krok there!” he insisted stridently when the flyer whooped and did a triumphant fist pump. “No promises on a second -- oh, for Primus’ sake, cut that out!”

Misfire shimmied his hips door-ward but didn’t stop the ridiculous dance. He’d learned it from watching old vids of Air Commander Starscream, and this was totally the time to test out his own version. “You can’t ma~ake me!” he sing-songed, feeling about a hundred times lighter all of a sudden. “I’m gonna teach it to Gri~imlo~ock!”

“No you’re **not**!” 

He’d known Fulcrum wouldn’t be able to resist protesting _that_. He’d have the techie throwing things at him in the washracks in no time. Fear? Ha! Not once he was done annoying him!

The flyer slid out the door of the cargobay with a grand whisk of his arms and wings held high. He had a date! He had a date with Fulcrum! More like an appointment, really, but that was just fine and dandy. All was right onboard the W.A.P. again, and it was going to be okay, and --

_Click._

Misfire froze in the silly dance pose, optics wide. The sound had come from behind him. 

It was a really familiar sound.

He didn’t want to, but he turned his helm.

Krok didn’t bother to push off from where he was leaning against the wall beside the door. He casually pulled the handle in his forearm to reboot the W.A.P.’s communication suite while gazing at the purple jet now half-twisted to gape at him. The impassive look wasn’t a glare. It wasn’t curious, surprised, or angry. It was a look that said the mech who was giving it had been listening in on the conversation inside the room, and behind those unreadable optics he was passing judgment on what had just transpired. That being the lies, the disobedience, and the conspiracy to conceal both from, well, him.

The stutter of Misfire’s fans was clearly heard in the silence filling the hall. As was the plaintive, “I’m gonna be seen in **public** with that,” from the mech still inside the cargobay. “Life isn’t fragging fair.” 

Okay, it wasn’t the most flattering lament about him that Misfire had ever overheard, but it did succeed in bringing a spark of amusement to Krok’s optics. Good enough. Misfire gulped air and turned around, wings down in open submission as he awkwardly snapped into a half-aft version of standing at attention. The amusement disappeared back into judgment, and he braced himself. This was going to be _bad_.

But despite that? Still sort of worth it, if Fulcrum would talk to him after the punishment was over.

The officer narrowed his optics and swept his disobedient, fear-paralyzed subordinate with an assessing look. Purple wingtips trembled.

After far too long, his chin dipped in the barest nod. Krok turned to walk away down the hall, and didn’t say a word.

Fulcrum wasn’t the only one not getting any more courageous. Misfire watched his officer let him off the hook, and he never, ever scraped up the bearing diameter to ask why.

****

[* * * * *]


	30. Prompt 30

**[* * * * *]  
 _”should have seen it coming”_  
[* * * * *]**

Fulcrum redirected his vents and blew air out his mouth, pursing his lips to aim at that that persistent drizzle of solvent slowly running down from his goggles. They were gaudy and kind of awful, but he'd put them on to use in the washrack. They'd worked fine to keep his vision clear until he'd broken the airtight seal. As soon as he'd pushed them up out of the way on his helm, they'd immediately begun collecting stray droplets of solvent. By now, they were kind of sloshy and leaky at the same time. The wet runnel down the side of his face was annoying him.

Unfortunately, his hands were occupied at the moment, and the blowing wasn't working so well. All he managed with his fuffing was pulling a funny face. That attracted unwanted attention. And by unwanted, he meant the Decepticon awkwardly sharing the washrack with him. 

"You have aquariums," Misfire commented, staring. He had the decency to not reach over and tap them, which was a distinct improvement over throwing his arm around a strange K-Con he'd just revived on an old battlefield. Maybe the mech could be taught, after all. "You could put miniature Sharkicons in there."

"Yes, because I need metal-munchers near my cranium." Fulcrum braced his back on Grimlock's hip and his feet on the wall before heaving. The Autobot ambled a step further into the sporadic spray coming down from the one working nozzle. That didn't seem like much, but one step for Grimlock was two steps for Fulcrum, and the bronze K-Con immediately fell flat on his back. "Owwww." 

Well, that hadn't been his brightest idea ever. Not quite the 'running away from battle' or 'throwing self at the D.J.D.' level of idiotic, but 'oops, didn't think that through all the way.' 

When the static cleared, amused optics and a repressed smirk were looming above him. "Couldn't be any more dangerous than the pet we've already got," Misfire said wryly, jerking a thumb over his wing at their resident bumbling berserker. "Might be smarter, too."

He wasn't going to scream. He _wasn't_. "Ah. Misfire?" Was that his voice? He'd heard glitchmice with deeper tones. "Can you...not do that?"

The squeakiness got through where subtlety -- and direct orders -- had failed. Which was kind of amazing, in and of itself. Misfire's optics reset, and suddenly the jet was backing away while looking apprehensively at the door into the medbay. The fear of Krok was a potent thing. The officer didn't even have to be present to have his presence felt.

Because Krok wasn't here, despite how he was supposed to be. Not even Krok could be in two places at once. Misfire, Fulcrum, and Krok had finally wrestled a very uncooperative, unhappy Dynobot back into rootmode and into the washrack, which had sort of been like trying to solve a complicated 3D puzzle and pushing it around while it chomped really sharp teeth at them. Right after that, the generator had blown and required both Spinister and Krok to drag it out for Crankcase to work on.

That left Fulcrum and Misfire dealing with Grimlock on their own, because Krok wasn't letting the Autobot loose after all that effort. Meaning that Misfire and Fulcrum's safe, commander-chaperoned date had abruptly turned into locking an attempted murderer and his near-victim together in a room. Mostly alone. Except for the Autobot, who was only theoretically sentient and could likely be talked into disposing of the evidence if Misfire decided to finish the job.

Hence Fulcrum's voice going just a wee bit high-pitched at the sight of the jet standing over him. 

The repressed smirk blossomed into a fake smile with no real amusement behind it. Misfire took his wings and attached self over to Grimlock's other side. "Right. Um, right. Too close?"

There wasn't a place on the entire W.A.P. that wasn't too close, in Fulcrum's fear-fueled opinion. However, he was aware that he might possibly be overreacting because of justified terror for his life because _this mech had tried to kill him_ \-- no, wait. Somehow, his attempt to make himself less afraid through reason had just fallen flat. He was more afraid than when he'd started.

Thinking was dangerous to his fuel pressure. His fuel pump hammered in his chest. 

Fulcrum sat up without answering and reached for one of the wads of worn-out wire mesh the Scavengers had been using to get clean since Crankcase got the washrack working. It was the same wire mesh they'd been using to strip rust off parts in the cargo bay prior to this, but hey, same principle. One way or another, metal bits of stuff had to be cleaned. At least they weren't using stripper acid on their own plating.

Yet, anyway. The K-Con studiously avoided looking at Misfire.

Who was fussing, trying to bodyblock Grimlock from getting out from underneath the solvent shower. It wasn't working well, what with the Autobot's considerable mass advantage. Misfire was losing this battle, one way or another, and he seemed resigned to that fact. "I am not -- stop that! -- the right size -- no, don't pick me up! -- to be herding -- I already had my shower, thank you -- this guy."

That was one way to feel less threatened by the flyer. Fulcrum bemusedly watched Grimlock hoist the kicking, complaining mech up like some sort of absurd umbrella. A really talkative one, at that. "I'm not sure any of us are."

"What, you mean you don't carry a Magnus around in your tool compartment?" Misfire doubled over to grab ahold of Grimlock's waist. He began stubbornly pulling himself downward despite the Autobot's whining. 

"Sorry. I only store aquatic brainless beasts. Land-based ones are too big for the goggles, you know." Fulcrum took advantage of the distraction to scoot across the floor and start on the massive Dynobot's legs. One nice thing about Grimlock's mental problems: the mech couldn't process two thoughts simultaneously anymore. He was totally focused on trying to use Misfire -- and his hands, once the solvent-slippery flyer wriggled free -- to shield his head from the shower. Actually stepping out from underneath the nozzle was forgotten.

So Grimlock sputtered and whined while the two Decepticons assaulted him with their scrubbies. It was probably the most benign attack launched in the history of the war. Krok had planned it, right down to assigning who washed high and who aimed low. Due to unforeseen circumstances (i.e. Crankcase predicted death, destruction, and a few lost limbs if they didn't get that generator working again, and that was only from Spinister's freak-out when the emergency lights eventually lost battery power), the two mechs stuck on Dynobot duty were doing an uncomfortable dance of determining where they'd meet in the middle. Fulcrum tried to stay on the opposite side of the Autobot from Misfire, but that wouldn't last forever.

There were a few half-sparked attempts to escape, but it seemed that most of the fight had gone out of the Grimlock once he'd gotten fully doused. Thumping on him and shouting made him mope back into place. Now he stood under the spray looking sodden and thoroughly miserable. Dejected sounds leaked from him in a nonstop snuffling mumble. 

"I think he doesn't like the smell," Misfire said when the silence had gone on too long. So about four seconds since he'd originally shut up. "Notice how he keeps flinching when that happens?" He poked his head around the mech's shoulder and pointed where Fulcrum could look up from the floor to see. Rivulets of solvent streamed down the sides of Grimlock's face past the olfactory sensor vents. 

Since there was a steady spatter of grimy used solvent hitting Fulcrum as it came off of the Dynobot, he could sympathize with that. "Yeah, probably. It is gross." His own ventilation system was redirecting away from his main nasal intakes to avoid most of the smell, but Grimlock's bestial altmode had a better sense of smell than any of the Decepticons did. He couldn't imagine how the Autobot had tolerated the reek of the ship in general. _Wet_ reek was even worse. 

In another of those poorly thought out ideas, Fulcrum inhaled deeply. That was a mistake. "Bluh. **We're** gross."

Misfire popped into view again to look at him curiously. There was a short sound of air rushing one way and then going out the other in more of a hurry, and the flyer made a face. "True."

The Decepticons grimaced at each other, a sort of _'ugh, disgusting'_ expression that conveyed their mutual feelings of yuck toward the layers of grime they'd scrubbed off themselves earlier. Multiple layers had been caked on in their joints and anywhere transformation or brushing at the dirt hadn't scraped it away. 

And yes, Krok had been there for that part of the so-called 'date.' When Misfire had ventured a tentative request for someone to do the back of his wings, their officer had completely ignored the hint that Fulcrum had been the one asked. Instead, Krok had pushed the purple mech face-first against the wall and commenced efficiently stripping everything but the metal from his subordinate's abused wings. Misfire had yipped every time the wire mesh scoured the half-repaired whipmarks. Since his wings were pretty much solid stripes from the disciplinary beating, there'd been a lot of yelping and pleading attempts to assure Krok that no, no, Misfire could handle washing himself, he really could – !

Krok had ignored the noise and scrubbed harder until his mouthy soldier got the message, shut up, and obediently endured. 

To be fair, the officer had then turned around and confronted Fulcrum. The K-Con had taken one look at the aggressively wielded ball of wire mesh and meekly turned to let his commander attack him next. Krok hadn't been gentle, but he'd certainly been thorough. Fulcrum was fairly sure the mech had scrubbed him down to his old paint job in places. 

Krok had stepped back, looked his two dazed but clean mechs over, and nodded in satisfaction. "Much better. I prefer my unit to have some grit," he'd drawled, optics glittering, "but that was ridiculous."

He'd looked pointedly at the floor of the washrack, and Misfire and Fulcrum had been appalled when they looked down to find they'd been standing in the epicenters of what appeared to be dirt explosions. There'd been rust, dirt, flakes of dried fluids that were rapidly becoming greasy smears on the damp floor, and that'd looked the remains of some kind of nest over there. Primus knew where _that_ had been lodged. Neither of them wanted to think about it, or where its former occupant had ended up. Fulcrum's back kibble had drawn up and together defensively, and even Misfire had been unnerved enough by the sheer scale of filth to twitch his wings.

It hadn't helped that Krok had pulled rank and taken his turn in the washrack as soon as Crankcase had emerged dripping but victorious from transferring the solvent from the loading ramp's hydraulic system. Every turn through the jury-rigged recycling filters left the solvent a little dirtier than it'd started, and it hadn't started all that clean. Krok hadn't been shiny, but he'd still been far cleaner than Misfire and Fulcrum. 

Impressing their commander? No. More like embarrassing themselves by existing. They'd looked from their filthy condition to their relatively clean officer, and they'd felt every bit of their grunt rank. 

He'd looked back at them sternly and pointed at the one working nozzle. "Now, **rinse!** " 

Fulcrum had given Misfire a wary, sidelong look. Misfire had shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Ummm..."

The wad of wire mesh had been hoisted in clear threat. "Or do I need to do it for you?"

The two Decepticons had scrambled toward the shower. 

Having Grimlock standing as a buffer between them was actually a better situation, when Fulcrum thought about it that way. Nothing could beat finishing their own scrubbing under the critical optics of Krok. He'd honestly thought the officer was going to come after them through the spray if they missed a spot. For a brief few minutes, fear of being scrub-a-dubbed a second time had kept the K-Con almost pressed up against the taller Decepticon's side as they'd rinsed their grubby selves in grubby solvent in vague hopes of somehow becoming magically less grubby overall. It hadn't worked so well, although official observation had kept Fulcrum from flinching too noticeable whenever Misfire moved. Hey, he had _some_ pride.

Krok, however, wasn't here now. There was only Grimlock, the dirty solvent, and Misfire. Pride wasn't any use to a murdered mech. Murder would seem to be something best avoided, as Fulcrum liked his pathetic scraps of pride to be useful.

In the interest of avoiding murder, he nervously edged around to the Dynobot's other side. Misfire pretended not to see. He kept cleaning in a downward spiral, working around Grimlock's squirming in a slow chase that only made the pursued K-Con more anxious the longer it went on. Which made Fulcrum angry, in a frustrated way, because he knew that Misfire wasn't threatening him. The flyer was attempting to act harmless, in fact, but that really just served to highlight that everything could be considered a threat to an unarmed ex-techie. 

Although Misfire's chattering wasn't helping him calm down any. The familiar nonstop blather might have been calming if not for the topic.

" -- frag, I didn't mean that to come out like -- well, like -- yeah. Sorry. Uh, so, uh, what was I talking about..."

The K-Con kept his optics on his work. "About how you harassed one of your old unitmates with small explosives and ended up 'accidentally' killing him."

The flyer was very, very quiet for a long moment. Grimlock's whining was finally tapering off, so the silence was really obvious. Awkward much? Yes.

A strained click of a vocalizer resetting ended the silence. "I didn't -- I didn't say I killed him."

"Mmhmm." No, he hadn't, but only because the story hadn't gotten that to that part yet. Petty bullying in the barracks using pilfered stickybombs? Yeah, that part had come and gone. Fulcrum had just extrapolated from that. It didn't surprise him that the story ended in death, or that Misfire hadn't thought far enough ahead to see how telling a story about killing a former unitmate wasn't reassuring in the slightest. 

"No, seriously." Yet still, the flyer couldn't seem to stop digging his Pit even deeper. "He went missing in action. He could have made it! Maybe he's somewhere in an Autobot P.O.W. camp about to get released because the war's over."

Fulcrum looked up, and Misfire's expression was so hopeful. Fragile, hopeful, and utterly false. "Correct me if I'm wrong here, but didn't the Autobots stop taking prisoners about the the time Soundwave's Anti-Neutral Pogroms started?"

"...yeah. Yeah, that's right." Misfire abruptly busied himself scrubbing. This time, Grimlock's motor turned over into a reluctant purr. Apparently the Dynobot's nose had finally numbed out of self-defense, and the concentrated attention was winning out over the nasty wet rain pelting him from above. 

The K-Con hated how he felt bad out of nowhere. Misfire had tried to _kill him_. From the sound of the stories he kept telling, it seemed to be the flyer's hobby. Therefore it was an occupational hazard for joining his unit. Yet still, Fulcrum glimpsed the oddly lost look in the mech's optics and felt bad for swatting the attempt at conversation flat. 

He fought the feeling, but it nipped at the base of his spark against all reason. Screwy, Primus-flipped flyer. How in the name of Megatron had the stupid fragger wormed under his plating like this?

Regardless of how or why, the nagging guilt won. He resented himself for being resigned to that fact before it even happened. 

This unit would be the death of him yet.

He sighed and broke the uneasy silence. "I wonder why we stopped taking Autobot prisoners but kept the prisons open? I mean, not that it didn't turn out better for me, but what good does keeping our own imprisoned do besides drain resources and delay execution? 95% of the prison colony populations are executed when the tribunals get around to sentencing. Seems like it'd be more efficient to put a round through our heads upon arrest." He'd had plenty of time to think back on Styx, and this had crossed his mind frequently despite himself. What was the _point_ of spending time and money on transporting him to the prison, keeping him alive until execution, and paying guards to make his life a living Pit in between those two points of time? 

Misfire's optics had lit up the moment Fulcrum voluntarily opened his mouth, but they turned curious when the flyer registered what he'd said. "What, you don't see it?"

"Huh?" He turned his helm to look up around Grimlock's leg before returning to picking at the knee joint. There was something stuck in here, he was almost certain, and the dumb Autobot wasn't protesting the extra attention. "What, the K-Con program? That emptied the prisons, but wasn't that done in big batches? New 'recruits' arrived in pre-formed K-Squads from each prison. I kinda assumed the prisons just refilled after that." Refilled and emptied, over and over again? It still seemed wasteful to keep mechs in prison until a full squadron could be reforged and trained. 

"Nah. Well, sort of, I guess," Misfire mused. "Biggest thing we ever got out of the prisons was slaves. When we took a base from the Autobots or needed to build our own, we'd get a shipment of chain gangs. We either put 'em through the base to trip the traps, or we used 'em as labor. If they died," he shrugged carelessly, "who cared? Like you said, most of 'em were slated for execution, anyway. The smart ones put their heads down and did their jobs. If they were lucky, they lived to the end of the projects, 'cause half the time they'd get conscripted back into the ranks. Sergeants don't give a scrap who's in the shock troops so long as the guns get pointed the right direction when slag hits the fan. They'd take **anybody** to fill out the frontline. Even you!" He blinked as the belated realization of just whom he was talking to hit. "Uh...no offense."

But Fulcrum was having his own revelation. "Some of my construction crews' numbers are making much more sense in retrospect," he said faintly, optics distant. "I wondered how in Primus' name they were getting the funds to throw more support personnel out into the danger zones, but I never followed up on it because it was getting the work done faster."

"That's all that mattered?" The flyer poked his head around Grimlock's side again. "Krok would've hauled aft out to the worksites so fast there'd've been a sonic boom, just to see what was going on."

"Yeah, well." That knee joint needed more scrubbing. Fulcrum ducked his head and scrubbed. "I'm not Krok."

"Ffft, you're telling me."

There was a moment of silence, more comfortable this time because it was underscored by Grimlock's motor puttering along contentedly. The bulky Autobot was just standing there, arms hanging lax and face blissfully upturned into the spray as Misfire stretched to pick at a chunk of something lodged in his neck. It was dissolving too slowly in the solvent for the jet's satisfaction, evidently. The shorter mech made an _'a-HA!'_ sound when the lump came free, then a more dismayed noise when it promptly stuck to his hand. Between the attempts to get away earlier and the enthusiastic scrubbing now, both Decepticons working on the bulky Autobot were back to a state of grundgy again. 

Fulcrum turned what Misfire had said over in his mind, and it gradually occurred to him that there was something a little off about it. "Why was I never taken away in one of those chain gangs?" he wondered out loud as he worked on scouring Grimlock's lower leg. 

Misfire didn't even pop into sight this time. "Have you **seen** yourself? What use would you be in manual labor?"

Okay, ouch. "That was uncalled for," the comparatively spindly mech muttered. Yeah, alright, so the reforging had added some bulk to him, but he wasn't about to admit he'd been even scawnier before. Streamlined! He'd been streamlined, not scrawny! 

Fraggit, he was slender and looked like the technician he once was. That didn't mean he had to accept it gracefully when Misfire chortled like that.

"Eh, besides that? I gotta few guesses why you didn't make it to getting your diodes kicked up between your audios by an overseer." 

"Your confidence in my physical abilities is just sparkwarming, let me tell you."

"I know, right?" Misfire stepped into sight and quickly skipped behind and around Fulcrum before the startled K-Con could leap to his feet. The flyer was already safely back out of sight beyond Grimlock's arm when Fulcrum's fuel pump started racing, leaving the crouching mech clinging to Grimlock's leg but not panicking. That was an improvement, of sorts. "So, option B -- as in, Besides You Being A Wuss -- is that Styx didn't send any slaves out while you were there."

Fulcrum swallowed his spark chamber out of the back of his throat and modulated his vocalizer down from the squeaking range. "Possible."

"Yep. There's also option C -- C for C'mon, You're Just A Wuss -- which is that you're smart. You know, not like Spinister. Or, er, most of us." The currently visible wing shrugged ruefully. It was an accepted fact aboard the W.A.P. that Krok was the planner, but Fulcrum was the thinker. There was good reason why he'd been slotted into the unofficial second-in-command slot, coward or not. "If I got arrested, I **might** be able to talk my way outta a death sentence, but someone like you might actually be able to argue your case. Work the system. Legal stuff. They might have kept you at the prison to make sure the actual trial happened."

Fulcrum's mouth flattened into a thin line. Nice theory, but it had no basis in reality. "That -- no. It didn't happen like that." His trial hadn't been anything more than a drawn-out condemnation. He hadn't done more than feebly plead in his own defense, and that had only been allowed for the entertainment value found in watching a desperate prisoner degrade from defense to swearing it would never happen again to just plain begging for mercy. 

Grimlock's steady rumble turned to a whine when the scrubbing became downright harsh. The K-Con attacking his leg like it'd cleanse his sins reined himself in and patted the Autobot's leg apologetically. "Sorry, big guy. Almost done, here."

Intakes snorted from the flyer gradually cleaning his way fully into sight. "Loser."

Prick at Fulcrum's temper enough, and he wouldn't care that the mech he was facing off with could wipe the floor with him. And he was supposed to be the _smart_ one? Primus, he was going to get himself killed at this rate. "Aren't you supposed to be being nice to me?" he sniped spitefully. 

"Dece~epticon," Misfire sing-songed, pausing his efforts to point at himself. 

"Yeah, yeah." Not even Krok could lecture 'nice' into a unit of Decepticons. Fulcrum had his doubts about 'civilized,' although at least the Scavengers didn't chew the furniture. Destroy it, yes, but they could be trusted not to gnaw on random parts of the ship. For the most part. Only if they didn't count Grimlock as part of the unit. "Go on. Tell me what option D is. Was I considered a danger to others?"

The bray of laughter was response enough for that. 

Fulcrum glowered. "It wasn't that funny."

"It was **hilarious** ," Misfire corrected him. "Especially because I can't look at you without picturing little thingies swimming in those." He gestured at the flight goggles on the K-Con's helm. Crankcase had relented enough to adjust the color to a less optic-searing gold to sort of go along with Fulcrum's color scheme, but glitter was glitter, and they still had the petro-rabbit ears. Plus, now they were half full of solvent. They were the most obnoxious accessory Fulcrum had ever had the abysmal luck to need. 

He went back to scrubbing Grimlock with a vengeance. The Dynobot growled, shifting about to look down at the Decepticon hurting him. 

"Hey, take it easy!" Misfire's soothing voice resembled his innocent voice too much. “Grimsy. Look at me, Grimsy. There's a dummy, yes you are.” Grimlock's head swung about to look at the hand patting his chest. He seemed confused by the gentle contact, which served to make him forget what he'd been irritated by previously.

Fulcrum huffed and sat between the big lug''s feet to get at the nooks and crannies where the armor had picked up more than its fair share of crud. Misfire nudged him with a foot cautiously, as if gauging if he was about to explode. When he didn't do more than hunch in on himself and make disgruntled noises, the jet must have judged continuing the better idea. Because silence was always the poorer one, obviously.

"Okay, so," the flyer said, taking that last careful step to stand beside Fulcrum's outstretched legs. The K-Con eyed them like he would either bite them or run away. It was entirely possible that he'd do both, the way he was feeling right now. Misfire was watching him closely. "Option D -- Do I Even Need To Say It? -- "

"I hate you."

"That's an **option**? Frag, my former units all thought it was a requirement. Anyway, you were an officer, right?"

This was never a good topic to bring up. Fulcrum peered up at him, wary and suddenly tense for a different reason. "Yes."

"Yeah. Uh, well, you were wondering what the point of a prison was, right?" And Misfire was reporting information like the bearer of bad news? That was _really_ not a good sign? Because that usually meant the messenger might get shot? 

Fulcrum wedged himself a little more securely between Grimlock's feet. "Yes..?"

Misfire looked down at him, and his mouth was set in a surprisingly somber frown. "Know what I think?" The K-Con didn't even bother answering. No, he was sitting here listening because he liked the sound of Misfire's voice. Duh! "I think, if you'd been anything but a commissioned officer – techie or soldier -- you'd have gotten yourself sniped by a bounty hunter instead of brought in alive. It's the officers, you know? You wanna make an example, you gotta pick your victim. It's why I go after the -- " A cough tactfully cut off whatever else the flyer would have derailed into. "Right. Anyway, grunts? We get slaughtered by Autobots all the time, and then we get replaced, and the unit doesn't even lose position before we're in the air again. Officers get noticed when **they** go missing, though. Everyone's gotta gossip about what happened. Word gets around."

Fulcrum's face gradually went slack as the flyer's quiet words sank in. Misfire shook his head. "And prisons like Styx? They're inefficient as the Pit, and that's sorta what the point is. Do you get it? I mean, why do we fear the Pit? **Because** it's inefficient. Death is quick, over and done with, but frag. I ain't even religious, and Flywheels used to make my wings crawl when he started in on what happened to the mechs not saved by Primus. Pit's scary because it's worse than death. Prison's scary because it's not just an execution. The higher-ups keep the prisons open because they want us to know what's gonna happen to us **before** we're finally offed." 

Wide optics stared and stared at nothing, looking haunted. "The D.J.D."

"Well, yeah. Exactly." Misfire stopped pretending to scrub Grimlock and just leaned against the Autobot's broad side. "Can't get less efficient than what they do, but they're doing it to terrify everyone else into not getting caught."

Fulcrum started to nod and stopped halfway through. "Wait, I think they're trying to scare us into not doing it in the first place."

"Dece~epticon."

"...I'm sincerely hoping that doesn't mean the D.J.D.'s going to be hunting us down because of you, too." One optic squinted. "Not that it matters, now, but we really don't need them to have more reason to come after us."

"I'll never tell," Misfire said smugly.

"Primus spare our sparks."

Grimlock was back to outright purring again, standing under the solvent nozzle in stupid happiness. His head was thrown back, visor offline, and the erratic pattering on his mask seemed to be lulling him into recharge on his feet. Sadly for Fulcrum's touchy personal space issues at the moment, Grimlock tended to recharge in altmode. Before the much smaller K-Con could dart out of the way, the dumb Autobot transformed and promptly flopped down to snuggle on top of the slender mech.

"Aw, **frag** no!"

Misfire was laughing helplessly somewhere off to the side, crammed against the wall by the mass-shift that turned an already massive warrior into a reptilian nightmare beast large enough to take up most of the washrack. Fulcrum snarled breathlessly and wriggled, trying to unbury himself. Misfire must have spotted one of his futilely thrashing arms, because the K-Con heard the laughter turn to coaxing.

"Grimsy! Grimsy, up. Get up. Bad Dynobot!" 

The Autobot made a confused, sleepy noise and moved exactly not at all. Fulcrum's free hand tried to claw at the chest pancaking him into the floor, but he didn't have the right angle to do anything. When another hand grabbed his, the attempts turned to frantically trying to shake it loose.

"Fulcrum! Come **on** , give me a break. Let me try pulling, okay? Alright? Hello? Slag, can you even hear me? I can't see your head under there." The hand wasn't letting go. In fact, it gave a few testing pulls. Fulcrum swallowed hard and hesitantly squeezed, getting his own grip. Misfire's other hand wrapped around it as well. "Right, let's do this on three. One...two... **three**!"

Something popped. It might have been Fulcrum's shoulder joint. The K-Con yelled furiously, but he made sure to keep his hold on Misfire's hand. He needed out from underneath this hulking lout, and he was going to do whatever it took to get free. Cry havok and let loose the -- 

"I see bunny ears!"

...right, well, who needed that battle cry, anyway. He was a disarmed K-Con, for pity's sake. A tech-head. Cry for funding and let loose the bureaucrats of war.

Fulcrum's head popped out from under the Dynobot after a few more heroic heaves by the flyer now hauling on his arm. When the orange-and-tan mech blinked his optics back into focus, he twisted to look up and saw Grimlock's toothy snout scrunched up because there was a thruster planted on it where Misfire needed the leverage. The Autobot's optics were still determinedly offline, however.

"Nope, he's not moving," Misfire informed him.

Fulcrum grunted agreement and tried an experimental wiggle. His ankle twinged at him. "Aaaaand I'm stuck. Ow ow **ow** , stop pulling! I said I'm stuck!"

"It was worth a try." Misfire dropped his hand and shrugged his wings back. "Now what?"

Now was apparently Grimlock making a series of strange coos and tucking his head closer to his body. That, incidentally, pinned Fulcrum under his chest and throat just that much more. It wasn't terrible comfortable being the Dynobot's impromptu pillow. Fulcrum was sprawled on the floor, squashed flat by the chin now firmly set between his shoulders, and he was immensely peeved at his situation. Getting tucked and cuddled was not helping his mood any.

"Is the door still locked?" he gritted out.

Misfire picked his way across floor made treacherous by a lazily flicking tail, then climbed Mount Grimlock in order to slide down on the other side and try the door again. "Yeah. I did warn you he'd do this."

The flyer wasn't referring to Grimlock. Grimlock likely didn't know how to lock doors. Fulcrum blew air out, irritably trying to get that persistent dribble of solvent out of the corner of optic. "No, you warned me he'd assign us a shift together, not **lock us in a washrack** together!"

"Same difference."

Defeated, he let his forehelm thunk against the floor after one last attempt to escape. No luck. He was well and truly stuck until Grimlock decided naptime was over. "Sadly, yes."

"We should have seen it coming."

"Again: sadly, yes."

Scraping and clinks announced Misfire reclimbing the grim mountain of the locked room. It made Fulcrum more than a bit nervous when the other Decepticon stayed up on top, above and behind him, but what could he do about it in this position? Krok had ordered the other Scavengers off the unit frequency, too, leaving Misfire and Fulcrum no choice but to talk with each other. That meant nobody was going to let them out until Krok deemed them ready. Fulcrum could holler for help from the officer, but did this really qualify as a threat? 

"I guess it worked out fine." Misfire sounded somewhat hopeful, like he could make the wish real by saying it out loud. He gave a forced laugh when Fulcrum didn't chime in to agree. "Grimmy's mostly clean now, right?"

Fulcrum finally got his other arm out from under himself and folded his arms so he could rest his chin on his crossed wrists. "Right."

More scuffing noises. The flyer had to be practically perched on Grimlock's head by now. That would probably explain why the angry Decepticon pillow's ventilation system was wheezing under compression, suddenly. 

Misfire's voice was close enough to make Fulcrum feel far too vulnerable, squished as he was. "So, um. Are we okay?"

The question was asked softly, and almost humbly. Fulcrum twisted and turned until he could glare at the jet out of the corner of one optic. "No."

Even at this angle, he could see the way those wings drooped. "Why **not**?" 

The K-Con met the whine with an annoyed scowl. "Because your aft is heavy! Get **off** me!"

"What?" Wings flared back, shocked, and then Misfire was tumbling off Grimlock in a tangle of limbs. "Oh! Right, right. I forgot you were, er, kinda trapped under there."

"You **forgot** \-- oh, for love of wax..."

"Ah-heh." Misfire's hands went up, half defense and half shrug. "Wasn't thinking about it. Was more thinking about," he looked down and away, wings going down a tad submissively, "that. Seemed more important."

"Misfire..." Fingers drumming on the floor, Fulcrum looked at him. Just looked at him. At the awkward body language and the unhappy set to the mech's face; at the way his hands kept opening and closing because they didn't know what they were supposed to do; at the unconsciously lowered wings and the stress-tightened thruster nozzles in the flyer's heels. 

He listened, too, and the silence said the most. For all Misfire's words, it was what he wasn't saying that was talking the loudest at this moment. 

This unit was going to get Fulcrum murdered.

It might save him in the process.

He pushed his hands flat on the floor to still their nervous movement. "Grimlock needs to be rinsed."

Misfire reset his optics and stared down at him. "Huh? What, really? Now? How can you -- "

"Krok's not going to let us out until he's clean, and he's got a lot more surface area in this mode. Just...start cleaning." Fulcrum put his chin on his wrists again and sighed. "It's going to take forever unless you can get him to move." He could feel Misfire staring at him, taken aback. "C'mon, get started. I don't want to be stuck in here any longer than I have to."

"Un-fragging-believable." The foul-tempered pseudo-word was all but spat at the pinned K-Con even as Misfire stomped over to gather up a bucket and the discarded ball of wire mesh. “I'm trying, I'm fragging well **trying** , but no. Noooo, of course it's not good enough. Fragging **Pit** , what the slag do I have to do?!”

He hoped his reflexive cringe couldn't be seen from over there. This was such a bad idea. He forced his voice to stay conversational anyway. "So, you never did say how you killed that one mech."

The pause this time was caused by a different kind of staring. Misfire recovered remarkably quickly, although he seemed a bit rattled by whiplash. "Oh, I, uh." His voice spun up, light and giddy. Fulcrum was really glad the cringing hadn't been visible. The flyer bounced back into sight swinging the bucket. "I shot him."

"See, now **that** is un-fragging-believable."

"I didn't mean to!"

"...that, I'll believe."

 

**[* * * * *]**


	31. Prompt 31

**[* * * * *]  
 _”Distraction”_  
[* * * * *]**

Krok had to let them out eventually, even if he'd have preferred them to stay isolated until things were dealt with once and for all. He had the feeling that such permanence would only come about through time and space, however. Quick solutions in enclosed rooms usually only happened when the mechs involved came down with a sudden case of death. There tended to be plague-level outbreaks of that disease when it came to solving inter-personnel problems among Decepticons. 

He prided himself in being the non-fatal vaccination to that particular affliction in his units. Take one Krok, call a medic in the morning. But the cure was a gradual thing, usually forced down the intakes of profoundly reluctant mechs who had to be persuaded, harangued, and indelicately punted onto the correct course of action. The correct course being the one that Krok supported, obviously. 

Rewards could be lavished upon the well-behaved thugs and criminals who made up a typical grunt unit, but Krok believed in the liberal application of the stick as well as the high grade. If he had to beat poorly-behaved mechs into shape, he would. He just preferred to use words instead of fists to guide them.

And he wasn't afraid to occasionally lock them into a washrack together until the complaints starting coming in tandem. Working together was working together, even if it were in the form of whining at his choice of team bonding activity. Misfire and Fulcrum were finishing each other's sentences by the time Krok unlocked the door. Sure, Fulcrum had immediately disappeared into the ceiling for several hours, but he'd been lured out when Crankcase scraped the solvent filters into some semblance of clean again. He hadn't been precisely happy to find Misfire in the washrack with Krok and Crankcase, but he'd only been skittish instead of terrified. That was an improvement.

Only onboard the W.A.P. would washing an Autobot be considered a good trust-building activity. 

And only onboard the W.A.P. would Krok let himself be distracted from shooting an Autobot between the optics when one of his mechs got damaged by that same Autobot. Apparently, there had been an _incident_.

"He dislocated your ankle," he said, but the protest was weak at best. 

"He laid on me. That doesn't really count as an attack." Fulcrum handed him another disc. Crankcase had made about fifty of them out of scrap metal while trying to recalibrate the micro-forge, and they'd been laying about the bridge waiting for someone to slip and fall on them until Fulcrum re-purposed them for distraction-of-officer purposes. 

Krok was distracted. He knew what the canny K-Con was doing, the bastard, but he just couldn't resist. "Anything that causes damage can be construed as attack." Aiming carefully, he threw. The disc skimmed low out the door and whizzed off down the corridor at about head-height. 

The eager, tail-wagging Dynobot who'd been watching the disc in predatory anticipation went thundering after it. The Decepticon officer sat there, delighted despite himself.

Before Krok could come down off the little power-high of glee, Fulcrum handed him another disc. "I think if it's **intended** to cause damage, it's an attack. Anything else is an accident. He's big and clumsy." Something crashed off somewhere in the bowels of the ship, heralding Grimlock chasing wherever the round disc rolled off to. The things were surprisingly hard to catch once a mech got the trick of winging them through the corridors. Misfire couldn't master this game to save his life. Fulcrum had taught it to Krok for exactly this reason. "He didn't try to hurt me," the K-Con said persuasively.

He should resist. He really should. "But..." Krok looked mournfully down at the makeshift frisbee in his hands and knew he'd lost the battle. Fulcrum might have a weak body, but he played dirty when it came to psychological warfare. 

The stupid Autobot thudded back up toward the bridge. They could hear his footsteps long before they could see him. 

Token protest forgotten, Krok snickered and zipped the disc right between the Dynobot's legs. The reptilian beast's optics crossed as his feet turned in and his head went down. He bellowed and dropped the retrieved disc before tearing off down after the new prey.

"This never gets old," Krok said as Fulcrum trotted over to fetch the disc. The K-Con smiled at him, perhaps a bit indulgently. Krok chose to ignore that. He also magnanimously decided he could overlook the Autobot-caused limp, after all. 

**[* * * * *]**


	32. Prompt 32

**[* * * * *]  
 _”Scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours”_  
[* * * * *]**

Everyone had a habit of forgetting how tall Krok wasn’t.

It could have been worse. They could remember all the time and try to use it against him. That’d happened to him a few times when some of his former troublemakers got it into their helms to cause problems. Krok’s previous units had mostly been made of good mechs, but there were always those couple of soldiers who just _had_ to push him. 

Size didn’t matter except when it did, and it really did when it came to pounding down insubordinate grunts who tried to usurp his command. He relied on his force of personality, but sometimes an officer just needed a really big gun to back up what Primus gave him.

The Decepticons in general believed that bigger was better, and the best was covered in weaponry. And then there was Krok, who fell on the sadly-lacking end of the physically impressive scale. Primus hadn’t blessed him bodily during forging.

A lot of mechs were fooled by his posture in the beginning, because first impressions lingered. Grunts who didn’t want to be punched back into their rightful place in the ranks knew submissive postures: slumped shoulders, ducked helms, and evasive optics. Any soldier without officer hashmarks showing attitude was either, A. a blatant liar going for the bluff, B. possessing of more ball bearings than common sense, or C. a complete fool. With the distinct possibility of, D. confidence that an overabundance of weaponry made him more threatening than any mere officer. 

When confronted by a guy who stood up straight, squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and met everyone’s gaze with a cool look of confidence? Krok’s usual first impression on mechs screamed _‘Authority Figure!’_ Soldiers who met him knew who had the rank even before they spotted the hashmarks. In the Decepticons, rank meant power. Usually freely applied to whatever soldier tried to stand up to an officer. Hence the submissive postures.

He could do without the automatic fear of reprisal, but he found it useful enough at first. Krok carefully cultured the impression of power and control, however. That was what he wanted to keep, once his mechs stopped flinching every time he moved. Because, physically, Krok didn’t have the body to back up his rank. He needed their respect, their interest, and their belief that there was no other option. He _was_ in control, no matter what Decepticon might-makes-right said about officers his size. 

Give him a couple weeks to get a unit in line and trusting him, and he’d have their power to back him up. Initially? Krok didn’t even have inbuilt weaponry. He had pistols in custom recharge holsters magnetized to the inside of his armor, but he didn’t actually have weapons from his altmode that could be detached or transformed out to use in rootmode. There, um, was an explanation for that, but not one he talked about. It didn’t precisely complement the surface-deep look of Competent Decepticon Officer he went for.

Spinister had given him a single surprised look the first time the surgeon repaired him, but Crankcase, Flywheels, and Misfire didn’t bother asking why their commander never transformed. Considering the mixed nature of the unit, altmodes weren’t a big deal. Crankcase didn’t fly, either, so they couldn’t be an airborn unit. That kept them ground-bound, but compromising between two grounders and three flyers meant using no vehicle modes whatsoever. Therefore: walking. Altmodes were useless in the Scavengers, except in short bursts.

Misfire’s weird social glitch meant he couldn’t do long-distance reconnaissance unless he was paired up with someone, which had kept Flywheels from getting antsy from being grounded too long. Spinister tended to use his rotors to fight, not fly. When Flywheels _had_ been grounded, he didn’t see past his religious rebirth to notice anyone else’s quirks. Crankcase’s wounds prevented him from transforming quickly. Spinister told him it’d be better off if he didn’t transform at all, but sometimes the mech just had to stretch his wheels. 

All in all, transforming didn’t happen often. Besides, transforming took energy they didn’t really have. Frivolous energy expenditures were kept to a minimum, and therefore transformation was, too. With the exception of Misfire, of course, who scouted with Krok’s permission because the jet had the attention span of a turbofox given a tinfoil ball. The moment he saw a shiny thing, the jet couldn’t remember an order not to transform.

With the exception of transforming on board the W.A.P. Krok had eventually gotten that one into the flighty mech’s processor through repeated lectures. Shipboard regulations banned vehicular transformations. That ticked one more potential sticking point off, because why would Krok transform in the ship? Duh. 

And once Fulcrum joined the unit, well, asking about altmodes joined the list of unspoken things nobody touched with hot pads and a heat shield. Which meant that Misfire got on the occasional kick where he wouldn’t shut up about it, and everyone threw miscellaneous objects in his direction until he got the hint and switched to another topic.

Although Krok still found it funny, sometimes. Perhaps not funny in the hysterical laughter kind of way -- nervous laughter, sure -- but funny in a weird way. It’d taken defying the Decepticon Justice Division for him to realize exactly how strange he was. The D.J.D. was supposed to be the epitome of ideal Decepticons, yet every mech in Krok’s scavenged group of losers had agreed with Crankcase: the D.J.D. didn’t deserve the badge. _They_ did. 

Krok agreed. He agreed, and he felt a fond pride that his mechs had stood up for themselves for their right to represent the faction. Tarn could take his list of importance and shove it where Luna 1 couldn’t be found, because the Decepticons’ five (now four) biggest failures were Krok’s greatest success.

Take one small, physically unimpressive officer without anything but an authoritarian attitude and a malfunctioning scrap heap of a ship. Add five Decepticons without the most stellar of track records when it came to respecting orders. Shove into close quarters and stressful situations. It was a recipe for disaster, or at least one dead officer.

Somehow, Krok had come out on top. He was plenty tall if he stood on their shoulders. He had all the physical power of a cohesive unit standing at his back. 

Not bad, Krok. Not bad at all. He’d only lost one mech, total. That had to be some kind of record, especially taking into consideration that they’d been up against the D.J.D.

Okay, pride for the living and lingering guilt for that one dead mech aside, none of Krok’s various tricks to keep his stern officer image up negated the blindingly obvious. That being the fact that, officer or not, Krok was still the shortest mech on board the W.A.P. besides Fulcrum. He was quite a bit heftier, but Fulcrum hadn’t originally been forged for combat. The techie had the slender struts of someone not expected to take on anyone in hand-to-hand, or lift anything heavier than basic tools. He was shorter, slimmer, and Krok swore he got into more trouble than a whole unit full of frontliners. It was compensation for his inadequate frametype, or something.

Leaving not-quite-so-short-but-shorter-than-the-rest Krok to go in after him when Fulcrum managed to electrocute himself deep in the twisty puzzle of the ship’s guts. Because _of course_ he had to do that right in an area they couldn’t tear apart to get at him.

“Fraggit.” Nothing compared to the sinking sensation he got when every mech in his unit suddenly remembered how physically small he really was. Misfire’s right optic twitched. Spinister scratched his chin and shrugged. Crankcase took two steps back and looked him up and down like he couldn’t believe what his optics were telling him. 

“Yes, I know,” Krok snapped out before anyone cracked a joke. He resisted the urge to pull himself up further. His shoulders could not possibly get any more square than they already were. Time for a double-dose of Authority Figure attitude, since they were all wondering how a mech like him had gotten those rank markings. “Move.”

The three larger mechs scrambled out of the way as he stalked toward the open hole in the floor. Misfire had just proven it was too small for anyone else. Krok had allowed Crankcase a swift uppercut to the jet’s jaw for that stunt, because getting Crankcase’s foot unstuck hadn’t been fun for anyone. That left only one mech who _could_ fit. 

Cautious of collapsing the rusted-out edge, he sat gingerly on the floor and scooted on his aft until he could push his foot under the jagged support beams that’d stabbed Crankcase right in the hubcap. If the bulk of his foot slipped past the sharp edges, the rest of his lower leg would be able to twist down like _that_ and -- good. The back of his lower leg scraped painfully as he eased it under the floor, but it was superficial damage. Crankcase had gotten zapped by one of the live wires at this point, so Krok was doing pretty slagging good in comparison.

He bent his leg at the knee and shifted the upthrust peak of the joint guard past the beam. His thighs were the narrowest point, but he wasn’t sure his hip joints were flexible enough to allow for inserting his other leg past his own thigh. He spread his legs to get the most room in the hole possible for the awkward contortions required and started angling his other foot in.

Yeah, this wasn’t as easy as it looked. He hoped it looked impossible. Maybe he was pulling off _‘officer doing something dangerous and difficult’_ instead of _‘why is this dumb shmuck in charge?’_

Wow, no, this wasn’t easy at all. Legs weren’t supposed to bend this way.

He’d just laid back onto one elbow with a grunt to try it from that angle when a hand touched his back. It, ah, took him by surprise. “ **Hey!** ”

That yelp, by the way, definitely hadn’t been the upper registers of his voice. Got that? Good.

“Whoa!” Hands went into the air as Spinister reared back before a somewhat wild glare. “Easy, Krok!”

His fans whirred as his body dumped the sudden battle-ready status down into stand-by. He eyed the surgeon suspiciously before returning to trying to maneuver his foot through the hole. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what? Help you?” 

Krok bit off another yelp of surprise as Misfire crouched in front of him, balanced uncomfortably. One knee rested on the floor near the hole, and the other wedged into the exposed pipes lining the corridor walls down here. It forced the jet to straddle the hole oddly, but the wall took most of his weight in this position. Considering the state of the floor and the knowledge that, yes indeed, the wires were very much live in this corridor? Awkward positions that kept him from putting a foot straight into the main power line were a good idea. Crankcase sure hadn’t enjoyed the experience, after all. 

“Here, gimme your foot,” Misfire said as he evaluated the hole.

Krok looked between flyers and turned his options over. Appearing tough and independent versus taking their help. Hmmm.

The faint smell of burnt insulation wafting from the hole decided him. Somewhere down there, there was a serving of crispy-fried technician cooking toward the burnt end of the spectrum. Krok liked his subordinates slightly less well-done, thank you. His command issues could wait until Fulcrum wasn’t imitating a rotisserie off the generator’s auxiliary core.

He snorted at his own thoughts and nodded shortly. “Fine. If I can get my feet through, my shoulders will fit. Just have to get past the heel.” 

Spinister put his hand on the officer’s back again, holding him up, and this time Krok allowed it. It wasn’t like his unit hadn’t had plenty of opportunities to kill him while he’d been vulnerable, after all. Misfire grabbed his foot and turned it until the knee joint creaked. A cable strained, but Krok stifled a pained noise as, optics squinting and concentrating hard, Misfire used one hand to point his foot. The toe nosed in while a hand on the heel guided it past a sparking line nobody wanted to touch. A half-turn in the other direction and the foot eased past a bent, razor-edged piece of the flooring. Krok’s body twisted in an unconscious attempt to help the hands guiding him, because his sense of duty might be in the driver’s seat, but his sense of self-preservation hadn’t given up the good fight yet. 

The hand bracing him upright took more of his weight, and Spinister reached around his waist to firmly pin his thigh to the floor before Krok involuntarily twitched it into another sparking wire.

“Almost…almost…” Misfire crooned absently. The jet’s wings went back as he bent almost double to put his optics down to floor-level. His optics narrowed, locked on where he guided Krok’s foot. “Just about through...can you roll to the side right here -- yeah, like that.”

A clicking snap echoed down the corridor, and Crankcase bellowed, “Did that cut the power?”

“Power to what?” Spinister yelled back.

“Your head!” A loud scoff made Misfire look up and grin for a second. “To the hole, idiot! Are the wires still sparking?”

Krok yiped as Spinister leaned over his shoulder with no regard for how that pushed the officer’s aft right to the edge of the hole. The surgeon looked into the hole and shouted, “No!”

“Spinny! Stop it!” Black hands pulled desperately as Misfire tried to keep Krok’s foot clear. “Stop! He’s going to fall in -- “

“No, the power’s not cut, or no, the wire’s aren’t sparking?” Crankcase called. 

“Yeah, that one!”

“Wha -- that’s not an answer! **What** one?!”

Misfire and Krok made the exact same noise of panic as the flyer lost his grip and metal skreeled. Krok overbalanced and flailed his arms as he lurched forward. His forehelm slammed off Misfire’s shoulder, rebounding in a crash and dizzy whirl of colors. He yelled, feeling himself fall while hands in front and behind tried to catch him. A muffled curse word at high volume accompanied the grating _skreeeeeeeek!_ of his leg plunging into the hole despite two sets of hands clawing after it. 

Fuel pumps stalled as all three Scavengers froze.

“Frag me sideways,” Misfire breathed hoarsely after a long beat of silence, and Krok slumped in the hands holding him up. “I can’t believe that worked.”

“What happened?!” Cranckcase hollered down the corridor. “What was that? Spinister, answer me, for Primus’ sake!”

“Okay,” Spinister said cheerfully. “He’s in!”

“But is he **dead**? Come on, is the fragging power off or not?” 

“No?”

Something hit something else hard. It sounded like a fist banging off the wall. “That doesn’t answer my question!”

“The power’s cut,” Krok said, voice unnaturally steady. “I’m fine. Good job, Crankcase.” His thighs pressed together to still any shaking that might have betrayed his state of mind, and he sat primly on the edge of the hole being very, very grateful that Crankcase knew his way around the W.A.P.’s jury-rigged wiring. The mechanic had taken one jolt and jerked loose before he got more. Stuffed into the hole as he was, Krok would have taken far more than a single instant of pain.

Electrocution via joining the ship’s electrical system was not the way he wanted to go. Crispy-fried Fulcrum had knocked that one off his list of possible deaths.

To be fair, every time he discovered a new way to go, that crossed it off the list. Any way to die was not a good way to die, but the sheer pain in Fulcrum’s screech and the smell of scorched metal made Krok pencil ‘electrocution’ in just so he could scrub it out again. Extra-special effort would be devoted toward not dying in that particular manner.

Speaking of which, time to play hero. Wasn’t there some sort of rule against this in the officer regs?

But...frag his life. An officer couldn’t reasonably expect his unit to back him if he didn’t have their backs. Reciprocity wasn’t just a fancy term bandied about by NeoPrimalists talking about _‘do unto others’_ and all that slag.

“Work on shutting down the generator,” he ordered, beginning to do a ridiculous full-body wriggle to get his hips and lower torso in after his feet. “Can we divert any more power away from the auxiliary core? I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to get to Fulcrum at this rate.”

Squirming into a hole not meant to accommodate anyone not made of rubber and grease required contortions to squeeze his kibble past things that didn’t want to let him past. It was a difficult, tight business. His HUD threw a list of complaints at him as the vigorous rocking and jigging abused his chest against the edges of the hole. Bits of ship stabbed him. Et tu, _Weak Anthropic Principle_?

Krok could just kiss his dignity goodbye after this. Respecting a smaller Decepticon could happen. He’d proven that one. He wouldn’t have risen this far in the ranks if he couldn’t get mechs to follow his lead.

Respecting an officer who had his arms over his head while doing a doofy shoulder shimmy didn’t even register in his head as theoretically possible. 

“I can’t take the generator offline without killing us,” Crankcase griped in the background. “Life support’s already been glitching today. We dump any more atmo, we’re going to be sucking vacuum. That gearhead was supposed to **fix** this, not cause a short in the auxiliary core!”

“I don’t think it was intentional?” Spinister said, sounding uncertain. He and Misfire exchanged a look over Krok’s head.

The officer glanced up warily when they nodded at each other. “What? Why are you two **_gah!_** ”

Hands plus shoulders plus the weight of two much larger mechs bearing down on those hands on shoulders. A simple equation, really. Krok’s startled squawk covered the result of the formula, but it didn’t cover the clattering afterward. He landed in a graceless heap on the pipes below the floor.

“What was that?” Crankcase demanded. He apparently didn’t like being unable to see what was going on.

Two pleased faces peered into the hole they’d just popped their commanding officer through. Square pegs, round holes? Eh, whatever. The application of brute force worked every time.

“Krok’s in,” Misfire reported.

“You’d better hope I don’t get out,” a disgruntled mutter answered from below.

Baffled, Spinister and Misfire blinked in unison. “Why not?”

“I need Fulcrum up here to fix him.”

“You can’t leave me alone with Crankcase. He’ll -- I dunno. Rip my wings off, probably.”

“If you don’t shut up, that sounds like an excellent idea,” Crankcase grumbled from out of sight. “Don’t think I’m not going to make you pay for shoving my leg in there.”

Misfire’s expression turned just a tad anxious. “I’m in favor of not going that route. How do you feel about amnesia? Can you suffer a sudden bout of that? Is that an option?” He looked past Spinister, presumably at the mechanic/pilot. “Krok! I don’t like how he’s looking at me! It’s the same way he looked at Grimlock when Grimsy snarfed his ration! Optics should not bug out like that!”

“My optics don’t bug out!”

Spinister’s head turned. “S’not technically possible, but y’know, he’s right?”

“Arrgh!”

“Krok, hurry up! Crankcase is going to explode!”

“He’s not going to explode,” Spinister explained in a patient voice that didn’t calm Misfire down in the slightest, because he went on to add, “He’s going to shoot you. There’s a difference.”

Misfire was barely in sight at this point, as he was evidently inching away down the hall away from Crankcase’s inarticulate snarling noises. “Like what?”

The surgeon shrugged. “More bullet holes.” He looked down at his commander as Crankcase cleared rotors, shoulders, helm, and the hole in one leap. The fuming mech immediately tore off down the hall chasing one panicking flyer, Misfire by name. From under the floor, it sounded like the gods of thunder and warfare were breeding the next generation of hellraisers together. Still scrunched up on his back where he’d fallen, Krok glared upward with his hands clamped over his audios. 

Spinister offered him another shrug. “Sir, **I** hope you get out.”

Krok just looked at him for that earnest assurance. How often did a Decepticon officer get genuine well-wishes from a subordinate?

He was also getting angry messages from Crankcase consisting of, *”Requesting permission to kill Misfire! I want to kill him. Let me kill him. I swear there are parts we can use somewhere in that garbage clank he calls a body.”*

Meanwhile, Misfire kept hammering him with urgent pleas to deny that request, no killing of Misfires today, no killing of Misfires _ever_ , help, save him, he didn’t want to diiiiiiiiieeee.

“What should I do?” Spinister asked him, staring off after the deafening fight.

Krok had the feeling that the other four let him take charge because nobody else wanted his job. Because they were the dregs of the ranks and knew it. Because commanding mechs like them was a thankless position full of never-ending paranoia about turning his back on the wrong person. Because a moment of weakness could be exploited by anyone who saw the opening.

Because their off-the-wall officer had taken them under his command despite knowing all that -- or rather, because he refused to believe it had to be true. And they were, a bit bemusedly, a little tentatively, following his lead on this one.

“Go draft Misfire to prep the medbay,” he ordered. “I’ll be back. Be ready to haul Fulcrum out if I can’t wake him up.” With that, he turned over on his front and started crawling into the depths of the ship. His proximity sensors picked up the casual salute thrown at his back, and then heavy footsteps ran after the ongoing yell-fest rampaging down the corridor. 

Somewhere below, Fulcrum smoldered, waiting for rescue. Misfire was shouting for help up above. Crankcase and Spinister were arguing loudly about who got first dibs on using the jet’s wings. Every single mech was on the unit frequency, and when he pinged them, they automatically pinged their status back, just like they were supposed to. Even if what he got from Fulcrum was garbled trash. That counted.

They were trapped in a ship in the middle of nowhere, and Krok was stuck under the floor wielding no power of authority other than his voice. Yet they still didn’t question him as their commanding officer.

Maybe his units never forgot how short he was. Maybe they just remembered everything else he was, first.

  
**[ * * * * * ]**   



	33. Prompt 33

**Title:** Homeward Bound: The (Not So) Incredible Journey  
 **Warning:** Written after MTMTE#8, so if the Scavengers do reappear in the series, this story will likely contradict however they get written. Other than that, beware of Decepticons being Decepticons. Not the brightest and best, but still. Decepticons.  
 **Rating:** G  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Fulcrum, Krok, Flywheels, Misfire, Crankcase, Spinister, Grimlock  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** A prompt from Tumblr

**[* * * * *]  
 _Krok - “Flywheels”_  
[* * * * *]**

Krok hated being laid up. The appearance of weakness meant that a Decepticon was too weak to cover it any longer. Even trapped in the medbay and covered in nanite-farm bandages, Krok had insisted on being up and active when others were present. Ranking mechs had to defend that rank against anyone looking to replace them.

Spinister knew this. Hence the reason Spinister tied him to the captain’s berth. 

To be fair to the surgeon, Krok wasn’t very coherent at the moment. Tying him down prevented further damage, really. Mostly inflicted by passing walls and the repeated introduction of face to floor. The officer’s balance had taken a short vacation elsewhere, leaving his body behind to blunder along without it.

The only way to separate soldier from generator, as it turned out, was to interrupt the circuit. Fulcrum had been unconscious and smoking lightly upon his return to the above-floor crowd, but Krok had been reeling and punchy. Reeling and punchy didn’t fall under the _’Commanding Officer: Good Things’_ list for Crankcase, Misfire, and Spinister. Luckily for Krok’s overall health, the names ‘Crankcase,’ ‘Misfire,’ and ‘Spinister’ were also on that list, with variations of underlining and italics. Fulcrum’s name was sort of scrawled in, crossed out, and had a couple question marks by it, but he was worse off than Krok.

And thus Krok remained in command, if tied down and currently under medical advisement to, “Shut up, shut down, and **rest**.” 

“I’m fine!” he snapped back, glaring. The lolling of his helm didn’t help the Authority Figure image in the least, and Spinister seemed to have moved when he wasn’t looking. Not fair! “Now let me up, or so help me, I’ll -- “

Spinister sighed and tipped Krok’s head the other direction. “Over here. Hi, Krok.” He waved. This was exactly why a single strap at the waist was effectively keeping Krok pinned down. By the time he figured out how to escape the thing, he’d probably have recovered enough to not fall down in a heap somewhere. “You were saying?”

The officer blinked, taken off guard by the ‘copter suddenly sitting by his side again on the berth. “ **There** you are. It’s rude to wander off when I’m talking to you. As I was **saying** , I’m fit for duty and perfectly able to take care of myself, so let me up immediately!” 

Misfire snickered helplessly by the door, hand over his mouth and optics sparkling as Spinister hummed acknowledgement of the scolding. Acknowledgement, not agreement. The surgeon held up his finger and uncapped it to shine a light into Krok’s right optic. Obviously losing his train of thought, Krok fell silent and stared dumbly into the light. Wow, that was bright. It moved up; Krok’s head tipped up. So very bright. It moved down; fixated, Krok followed it. It moved to the side, but Krok kept staring downward, puzzled that the shiny thing had disappeared. Where did it go?

“Yeah, your self-repair’s working on it,” Spinister announced. He recapped his finger. One big hand patted his captain on the head. “Two days, tops. I’ll let you up when you can tell me what the bulkhead’s done to deserve being glared at like that.”

After some time peering through squinted optics, Krok determined that Spinister was not, in fact, that shade of gray. Once again, his head had flopped to the side and left him angrily lecturing the wall beside his berth. Oops. 

Ugh. Why did he feel so _weak_?

“Don’t worry!” Misfire said cheerily. “We won’t crash the ship. It’s not the first time we’ve been on our own!”

That was not a statement to reassure any officer, much less this one. He seemed to be making a habit of getting himself tethered to medical berths, and that wasn’t a good habit. “Fulcrum?” he asked the bulkhead tersely. If Fulcrum was riding herd on the pack of fools, maybe it’d be okay to nap for a while. He felt like restructured scrap.

“Burnt out every one of his breakers, and I’m going to have to strip and re-insulate most of his wires on the left side of his body. Shoulder’s the worst, though. He must have been hanging off it, ‘cause there’s fracturing where weight stressed heated struts.” Spinister had relocated somewhere behind him when he wasn’t looking. He could _hear_ the surgeon. Hmm. Krok debated the pros and cons of trying to turn his head but eventually settled for making a vague sound indicating he was listening. “I’ve got him in the medbay. He’ll be okay soon as I get the parts to start on him.”

A useful surgeon was a happy surgeon, but that didn’t make the people around that surgeon very happy. Krok much preferred when his surgeon was bored and itching to kill. It meant the rest of his crew was intact. He liked having his crew intact. They were his responsibility. _He_ was supposed to be the one taking care of _them_. Control issues a decent officer did make. Control obsession, not so much, but Krok believed in having enough control over his unit to prevent them nosediving into trouble.

Well, he tried, anyway. These Scavengers were dead set on dragging him along into the Pit.

“Meantime, you’re on your own.” A pat fell on his shoulder. “You rest. I’ll be back in a while to check on you.”

Metal clanked as Spinister stood up and headed for the door. A war-whoop that had to belong to Misfire bounced out of hearing right before the door cut it off mid-excitement. That was a sound to chill an officer’s tanks any day.

“Get back here so I can yell at you!” Krok shouted, resetting his optics. No matter which way he looked, he couldn’t seem to find his malfunctioning, insubordinate _gearheads_ to give a properly scathing talking-to. It didn’t matter that his neck could only twitch in feeble spasms. Spinister must have sedated him. Turned him on his side to curl up facing the wall, and sedated him. Yes, that was the obvious problem here. Surgeons getting above themselves. Spinister wasn’t even a _medic_ , he was a _surgeon_ , and what the frag, surgeons weren’t the same as an actual medic. Spinister probably didn’t have a clue what to do. Blind luck the lunatic hadn’t misdiagnosed anyone and killed them all yet.

Defeated, he turned his optics off and rootled about on the berth to ease the worst of his aches. Disgruntled muttering followed Krok into the blankness of recharge.

Flywheels was there when he woke up again. Krok reset his optics and fuzzily pushed aside a barrage of self-repair reports. No wonder he felt like recycled junk.

When he reset his optics the final time to clear his HUD, Flywheels was still there. For some reason that struck him as slightly wrong, but mostly Krok was just irritated. “Spinister send you to watch over me?” the officer asked bitterly. He grumped about on the berth in an attempt to find a comfortable spot. “Not an invalid. Don’t need a nurse.”

A thermal insulator floofed down over him. Krok flailed weakly under it, trying to resurface. “Spinister didn’t send me,” he heard Flywheels say, and he calmed himself. Right. Dignified Decepticon officers did not _flail_. They just batted at the blanket until an opening was found. That was far more dignified. Primus, he was in pathetic shape right now. He couldn’t even lift a slagging piece of insulation.

Huh. He hadn’t realized his self-repair had sapped energy from his systems until the external insulator started bringing his body back up to temperature. External help was necessary, apparently.

That didn’t mean he had to be gracious about accepting it. He stuck his head out the opening he eventually located and leveled a suppressive look in Flywheels’ direction. The mech studiously continued to read his religious text. Yeah, he’d better keep reading. Krok tamped the blanket down under his chin and set about tucking the edges in as he found them. He couldn’t move his arms enough to untie the strap over his waist, but he had enough freedom to make being smothered look purposeful instead of imposed. If it’d get him off this berth any faster, he’d accept his blanket-burrito fate. 

When things were as smoothed as he could make them, he spoke again with painful dignity. “If Spinister didn’t send you, why are you here?” Flywheels had never shown an inclination toward preying on the weak, not since he found religion. That automatically made Krok suspicious. Religious Decepticons tended to be the most militant under the right circumstances.

A red visor looked over the top of the datapad. “Thought you’d like the company.”

Well, what could he say to that? He was on berth-rest until somebody came to untie him, and it didn’t look like Flywheels would help him with that. “…appreciated,” he said a tad sullenly. “Just don’t read to me. I’ve had all I can take of NeoPrimalism.” 

Flywheels put down his text and grinned. “Don’t be like that, Krok. You just got started on the wrong foot.”

“Wrong foot, my scuffed aft! Have you **seen** the engine room? It’s like someone went slap-happy with iconography in there!” Krok squirmed aside on the berth, making room for the person standing next to Flywheels to sit. When had all these people arrived? He’d worry about his inability to remember the door opening, but since they were all familiar and belonged here, he concentrated more on focusing his optics. He _hated_ zoning out like this, but his self-repair sapped him of energy. “That’s not even counting the prayers. How can you say stuff like that? It’s all about debasing yourself. It’s depressing.”

“It’s not so bad. You just have to have the perspective that we’re all very small and next to nothing when compared to Primus.”

“Religious claptrap,” Krok dismissed him. “Sit! I’m not lying like this because it’s fun! Slag, do I have to write an invitation?” Someone said something. “Not you. **You**. Yeah. If you’re going to stand there and talk to me, have the decency to not stand over me like you’ve about to slit my fuel lines.” The other mech sat on the edge of the berth where he’d made room, and a sense of well-being and satisfaction flooded him. Good. That was -- that was good. 

A pointed inquiry after his health made him cough a laugh. “What’s it look like? I’m a torpedo short of a brace.” Someone else spoke, and he squinted. Processor errors popped up on his HUD, giving him a headache, but he had the odd impression that there were more mechs in the room than should have been physically possible. He considered that for a moment before deciding it didn’t matter. “Haven’t seen you for a while,” he said instead. “Where have you been hiding?”

Broad shoulders shrugged, and the answer teased on the edge of hearing before Krok’s attention bent away again. There were familiar mechs milling through the room, investigating his desk with curious hands and talking in the background. “Get out of there!” he ordered, and laughter burst out over by the desk as mechs threw up their hands. Caught! Sorry, sir, won’t happen again, sir. “Yeah, right, I know better. Stay away from my things.”

“Relax,” Flywheels said, still grinning. “I’ll keep them in line.”

Krok eyed him warily, but Flywheels _was_ a good soldier. Misled in terms of religion -- Dark Lord of the engine block, anyone? -- but otherwise dependable. Not that he distrusted these folks. He knew them all. They were a solid unit. Good Decepticon grunts, all of them. 

“I’m holding you to that,” he said, but his voice came out burred as his vocalizer slowly cycled down. Just a short nap. He was so tired. “Keep them…” 

Panic abruptly chilled his lines, frosting his spark in glitters of agitation and meaningless fear, and he thrashed against the tie around his waist. Wait, there was something really important he had to say! “You’re in charge until I’m back on my feet! Keep them close,” he finished, urgent even in a sleep-blurred voice. “Keep them here. Got that? Keep them here. Stay…close.”

The surge of energy petered out, but the sense of urgency remained. Krok forced his optics to stay online. 

His mech looked down at him and nodded, but as the officer stared at him, his vision played a weird trick on him. The red of Flywheels’ visor retracted, going from a wide band to a pinprick, and the silver-white of his smile smearing into a wider color scheme of reds and purples that gradually faded back, away from the berth. “We’ll stay here with you, Krok,” Flywheels said in many voices, voices Krok recognized but couldn’t put names to, just like he couldn’t put faces to the mechs standing by his berth. They were so _familiar_ it frustrated him, but at the same time, he felt obscurely comforted by their presence. A nagging thought far back in the haze of his drained mind said that he was better off unable to see their faces. “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll stand watch for a while.”

“Better not be here when I wake up,” he slurred. “Got duties. Go do ‘em.”

That burst of laughter again, like he’d caught them doing something they weren’t supposed to, but only jokingly. He had the urge to scold the whole unit. Always getting into trouble. “Will do,” someone who sounded like Flywheels said, but when Krok brought one optic online, all he saw was the red ready-light of the door controls and the maroon of the wall beside it. 

He grunted and turned over. It took real effort. A hand or two might have helped him, but he couldn’t tell who they belonged to through the thermal insulator, which they tucked up behind him. His vents sputtered faint protest to the gesture. Decepticon officers didn’t need to be tucked in. Decepticon officers were self-sufficient, cold-sparked killers who ate glitches like these to feed their repair nanites.

Regardless of his mumbled protests, the slightly-fried officer didn’t object over-much to the cocooning. He was cold. 

The wrongness of the situation drifted through his mind, picking at the edges of his thoughts while he slept. Flywheels…something about Flywheels. And all those other Decepticons hanging out in his quarters like they belonged around him. He didn’t understand. 

Perhaps aided by the slow work of his self-repair system, his processor threw flashes of memory recall into the forefront of his mind. Old, filed, _blocked_ memories gurgled by under conscious thought, pressing up like they’d break through, but Krok was injured. He recharged restless but deep, fingers closing on nothing and knees drawing up. Troubled dreams chased his memories as his processor imagined and connected random facts. 

He woke less disoriented this time but aware that his systems were still compromised. The gray of the bulkhead in front of his optics wavered as he cautiously reset his color filters. “Hmm.”

“Feeling better?”

“Somewhat.” He felt surprised by his lack of surprise. Taking in a heavy in-vent, he risked the monumental task of turning over on his own. Oof. Yes, hello, the room was still full of mechs. More importantly, that fragging strap across his waist had to go at some point. Round-about when he could determine how to remove it, likely. Until then, he’d just push at it with his hands and call the weak attempt good enough. 

That tactic was more effective with the thermal insulators attempting to strangle him. “Stop putting these on me,” he ordered crankily. There had to be five of the things piled on him. “Slagging Pit, no wonder I’m so hot. Get these off me!”

Flywheels looked at him over his datapad. “I didn’t put them on you. Spinister did.”

“Why would he do that? Idiot’s going to send me into system melt-down at this rate.”

The mech sitting on the end of the berth pointed out that if he’d take three seconds to check his temperature regulator history, he’d see why. Krok shot him a glare but figured the suggestion couldn’t hurt. 

Oh.

He dug down among the insulation layers to find the cool-paks some wise-aft surgeon who was smarter than he looked had cracked and slipped in with him. Right. Thermal insulation worked just as well to keep a mech cool as they did to warm him up. He’d just -- wrap himself up tighter to keep the cold in, now. “How long have I been overheating?”

“Since your self-repair started generating wire coating out of internal excess. He’ll be back soon to shove some material supplements in your storage for the nanites.” Flywheels handed another blanket to the mech sitting on the end of the berth, and Krok almost recognized him. Almost knew him. 

He tolerated the addition to his nest. At this rate, he’d be able to lurk amidst the insulation like some sort of strange mechanical beast. He probably looked like Fulcrum did when Grimlock curled up around him.

But he really was overheating like crazy, so he slid his arms back into place in the burrito of blankets and settled down as best he could. That involved packing the cool-paks against his midriff, which provoked a hiss. He was burning up! “How’s life support? Can Crankcase tweak the temperature down a degree or ten in here?”

“Blinking in and out, so no,” Flywheels reported. “You’re stuck like this until your body evens out.”

He didn’t want to hear that. Krok glowered from the hole his concerned crew had kindly for left his optics. The rest of him was firmly bound up in insulation, including his head. “Fulcrum?”

Flywheels was mumbling along with a prayer on his datapad, and one of the others took over reporting the status of his unit. Krok listened hard, he knew he did, but he couldn’t recall a single thing he’d been told a moment later. Yet he could clearly remember that Fulcrum was fine, Misfire had started an electrical fire, and Crankcase had tied the jet to Grimlock’s back until further notice. None of the words registered in his mind, but when he hesitated, vaguely disturbed by his lack of clarity, he found the distant, watery memory of Spinister’s voice behind another mech’s reporting style. A familiar style. He should know that way of snapping to attention and blurting out a rush of information, and it wasn’t Misfire’s style because of the respect. This mech respected him, and he respected -- 

In a blinding flash of information, Krok suddenly remembered what he’d thought of while dreaming. “Flywheels.”

“Huh?” Flywheels looked up, blinking. “What?”

If he moved too quickly, the red of the visor became a blinking ready light, the red and purple plating the far wall. That made sense, suddenly. “…you’re dead,” Krok said, quiet. He reset his optics and saw no one in the chair, an empty room, and no one sitting by his feet. For half a second he stared, strangely pained, before he lost his concentration. 

The smudges where colors bled into pixels grew shadows and edges, and the room was full again. 

Flywheels sat in the chair, a lopsided smile on his face. “Yeah, Krok. Got it in one.”

Krok breathed in and out, pulling in cool air and pushing out hot. The inside of his head felt odd and fragile. “Miracle? Zombie?”

“Nah.”

He’d have freed a hand if exhaustion didn’t trap his arms at his sides. Lethargic but not alarmed, he nestled further down into the cool interior of the cocoon. “Ghost?”

Flywheels snorted a laugh. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

That made a kind of sense. Ghosts were supposed to haunt mechs, although Krok had never run across any proof of their existence. “Am I hallucinating?” he tried.

Someone chuckled. A wave of half-sparked salutes went around the room. There were also several crude suggestions for what he should envision next, if this was what he saw when injured enough. Some of them were quite inventive, if against officer regulations and the laws of physics.

“Alright, alright.” He shrugged. “So you’re ghosts. Should I be alarmed?”

“Yessir.” Finally putting down the religious text, Flywheels leaned forward as if to study his former commander. “Boo?”

Despite himself, Krok laughed. “I’m not scared of you. Aren’t hauntings supposed to be more frightening?” He didn’t feel frightened. He felt despicably cozy, in fact. A Decepticon should never feel this at ease around his own kind. “Are you giving me a sub-par haunting, Flywheels? I expected more of you.”

Of all of them. Although he couldn’t say it, and a strange muddled sense of confusion distracted him before he could think about why.

“Well, you’re kind of under the sensor-range right now. It wouldn’t be fair to send you screaming…flat on your face.” Flywheels mimed falling out of a berth. 

That was uncomfortably close to the truth. “I’m fine.”

A round of snickers went around the room.

Krok deflated. Bluster wasn’t much use when he was swaddled in thermal insulation and puffing hot air. 

When he didn’t say anything further, activity resumed around the room. Groups seemed to have formed. He recognized several games he used to play, and part of him wanted to walk up behind the one group in the corner. He could drop a warning about a common cheat that one mech in particular used to pull. When he looked directly at the group, however, the motion blur blotted them out, and there was only a wall. He stared hard at it but couldn’t keep his focus long. Resetting his optics a few times dropped him back into the fuzzy stand-by of an overworked self-repair system, and mechs filled the room again. Harmlessly trapped as he was, he was content to watch for a while.

He’d missed this. He wasn’t sure what or why, but he’d missed listening to these mechs talking and laughing around him.

Flywheels continued to sit by the berth and read, even when that one group dissolved into a fist fight and the featureless mech sitting by Krok’s feet stood up to go break it up.

Eventually, Krok decided to say something. The words were coming out anyway; he could feel them piling up on his vocalizer. He’d rather say them voluntarily and make sure they came out right. “I’m not sorry you’re dead.”

A red visor that wasn’t there glanced up. “Good to know,” Flywheels said wryly. “Neither am I. I’m just dead.”

So much for getting it right. That’d come out badly. Krok sighed and pressed his helm back into the squishy layers of insulation wrapped around him. “I meant that I find your death -- regrettable,” words were a struggle to find, much less say, “but I tried to stop it. Your safety was my responsibility, and I did my best. It wasn’t enough against the D.J.D. You died. It wasn’t in any way my fault, so I’m not sorry.” There. That was slightly better.

Flywheels regarded him as if Krok were an interesting lifeform found at the bottom of a petri dish. “You don’t blame yourself at all?”

Krok met that clinical gaze steadily. “No.”

Guilt had tried to worm into him after leaving Clemency. He’d cut it out of himself ruthlessly. He’d done what he could, when he could. Tesarus held responsibility for Flywheels’ death, not him, and he refused to bear guilt for that. He _couldn’t_ have tried harder, done more, or somehow magicked himself free of Vos. All the scenarios he constructed in his mind where he saved this mech? They hinged on the idea that he could have somehow defied reality. 

At spark, he was a practical mech. He had tortured himself with _’what if?’_ questions for a short while, but then he had faced each question and weeded out all the possibilities until only the facts remained. In the end, Krok couldn’t change what had happened. It was already over and done with, and there was no point in dwelling on guilt that wasn’t his to bear. He had fulfilled his duty, and that’s all Flywheels could ask of a unit commander.

Flywheels smiled a little, an out-of-place peaceful expression Krok had never seen him wear. “And that’s why we’re not haunting you, Krok. It wasn’t your fault.” The smile tugged up at the edges into a crueler look that fit his face better. “Unlike some, you don’t deserve vengeful ghosts terrorizing you.”

Privately, he doubted Flywheels could terrorize him. For Primus’ sake, every other time he reset his optics, he saw straight through the mech. It was hard to fear someone who only existed in his processor. Or…technically it was possible that Flywheel’s incorporeal spark had entered the W.A.P. and was sitting beside him. Krok could be in the captain’s quarters, berth-bound and wrapped in insulation, while a bunch of dead mechs rustled about in another plane of existence around him 

He wasn’t sure he bought that theory. Maybe one ghost, but -- there were lot of mechs. What, an entire unit came back from the dead to gather in his room? It looked like there were at least that many mechs in the room with him, and he felt like he _should_ know them, recognize them, if he could just bring their faces into focus --

A crackle of static crawled up the side of his head as his optics narrowed on the _cusp_ of seeing, and he jumped, shocked out of his thoughts. 

What had he been -- ? Nevermind. “Should I be worried about my unit?” he asked, grasping the oddly amused tone in Flywheels’ echoing voice. The mech sounded like he was talking through a tube, but death had to be fairly far away. Krok couldn’t say the voice change was the strangest thing happening right now.

Tilting his head to the side, Flywheels gave him an eerie look composed of a visor a shade too bright and a smile far too wide. Krok had the distinct feeling he wasn’t talking to his dead subordinate any longer, if he ever had been. “That would depend on any weights they have on their consciences, now wouldn’t it?” the ghost who wasn’t said in that echoing voice. “The dead feed their anger off of guilt, and if it is there, they will come to feed.”

That sounded fairly ominous. “Decepticons kill,” Krok said coldly. “We’re soldiers. Killing is what we do.”

“Yessss,” the thing wearing Flywheels’ shape hissed, slow and satisfied.

“We don’t feel **guilty** about it afterward.”

Laughter boomed, and Krok weathered it unflinching. He had amused the dead. Fabulous. He could add that to the _’Commanding Officer: Good Things’_ list and make himself that much more irreplaceable.

“No?” Krok focused, refusing to see the form of his dead mech. These were the captain’s quarters of the _Weak Anthropic Principle_ , and they were empty. The mechs drawing in around the berth as if about to descend on him weren’t really there. Flywheels’ hand couldn’t crush his chest down, chilly touch penetrating the insulating layers to freeze his fuel pump and sent his overheated body plummeting to the opposite end of the temperature gauge. “No guilt at all? What Primus forged cannot be so easily unmade. If it were, I could Seduce your Sparks into My Darkness, to Smelt in the Cores of Dead Stars until the Final Reckoning, when I shall Call your Cleansed Cores to do My Bidding as Heralds and -- “

The shadow above him looked up suddenly, visor flaring as it drew the room’s light to devour like a furnace. The crimson color was otherworldly, and Krok fought to not see it. 

This wasn’t real.

This was a hallucination. He’d taken damage.

Self-repair had knocked him for loop.

He could feel the blankets around him, but he could also feel the hand slowly bearing down on his chest. The room dimmed toward total darkness, shadows surrounding him in the shapes of familiar mechs, a whole unit of optics and visors he could pick out of a crowd of Decepticons, but the room was well-lit. He could see his desk. He could see the door. He could see the access panel’s ready-light blinking on and off. 

_This wasn’t real._

Red optics reset, and Krok wheezed as Flywheels stood up straight. The shadows vanished as if they’d never been. The lights illuminated everything, even the nicks and dings he hadn’t realized he remembered Flywheels having. His ventilation system raced, his fuel pump hammered, and he realized the cool-paks were melted, tepid blocks against his torso.

“Perhaps you speak for yourself,” Flywheels said, tone dropping from fanatical ranting to calm reason, “but not for every Decepticon.” He leaned down, and Krok would have recoiled into the berth if not for the exhaustion swamping him. “Rest, Krok. You bear no guilt because you carry other burdens. Not every one of your kind can carry those, but they’re as important as guilt in Primus’ forging. It makes you less vulnerable than I’d like, but not lesser in the grand scheme of things.”

Confused, the officer just stared up at the thing wearing Flywheels form. “Who are you?”

A small smile twisted a familiar face, the way Flywheels used to smile when Misfire cracked an inappropriate religious joke. As if he shouldn’t smile but couldn’t help himself. “A figment of your past.”

Krok turned that around in his mind. “You told me you were a ghost.”

“A ghost is a manifestation of memory and spark, feeding off the emotion of those who see it.” Flywheels held his hands together in prayer. “Am I any less real for being a product of your mind? I still exist. I am whom you knew me as.” His hands drew apart into a careless shrug. “I am also more, as you know Me.”

He almost understood. He could almost grasp what this thing wasn’t saying. “Flywheels…”

“Rests in peace, thanks to you.” The not-Flywheels dipped his head in a sardonic nod. “You did your duty by me, sir.” Looking up, he grinned. “Guess this is goodbye, then.”

Krok could only look at him.

Through him.

And Flywheels disappeared into thin air.

He hadn’t been there in the first place. Krok wouldn’t believe it. It’d been a delusion. A delusion and…he had his suspicions about just who was playing games with the living using the dead.

A few hours later, having struggled free of the confining blankets and that confounded strap at last, Krok woke from lousy dreams about his former unit. Someone was banging on the door. “Whu..? What! Frag, I hurt,” he moaned quietly. One hand went to his chest and the half-fried circuitry within him, but the other automatically pulled one of the discarded thermal insulators up in lieu of a weapon. Yeah, he’d just wave any potential attackers away. That would work.

The door opened, and a pair of wide red optics peeked into the room. “Krok?” 

Krok rest his optics, but the crumbly smile on Misfire’s face didn’t look any less scared. “What?”

“Can I, um.” The jet edged into the room, optics darting toward the corners and wings flicking nervously. “Can I recharge in here?”

“What?” What. No, really: what. “Why?” He frowned.

Misfire fidgeted and offered another smile that badly covered fear. “Company? Unit solidarity?” Something clicked behind him in the officer bunks, and he nearly jumped across the room before scrambling back around to face Krok again. “Bodyguard! I’m a great bodyguard!”

“While you recharge,” Krok said, letting doubt ooze off the words.

The twitchy smile froze. “…yes. I’m very talented.”

He eyed the jet for a moment, then tossed the blanket at him. “Fine. But you get the floor.”

Misfire didn’t even question the blanket. He threw it over his head and wingtips and scurried over to sit on the floor by the head of the berth. He peered out from under the insulation at the door. “Good! Wonderful. I like the floor.”

Krok looked down at him. He’d never seen Misfire so freaked out. The door pushed further open. Without even looking up, the officer grabbed another thermal insulator off the rumpled pile on his legs and held it out. “Floor.”

Lips pressed together in a grim line, Crankcase stalked in and shut the door behind himself. His cracked visor dared either of the other Decepticons to say a word. Krok was still looking at Misfire quizzically, and Misfire seemed intent on staring at the shadow under the desk, so no words were said. Slightly mollified, the mechanic/pilot sidled over to sit on the other end of the berth from Misfire, acting like he was being forced at gunpoint the whole time. Krok dropped the blanket on his head. A muffled grunt came from under the insulation, which the officer chose to interpret as ‘thank you’ in Crankcase-ese.

Misfire was curling into a surprisingly small ball of wings and elbows. After a moment of thought, Krok shoved the rest of the pile of thermal insulators on top of him. He didn’t need them any longer, and the tiny sound that came from under them indicated that his subordinate kind of did, if not for their intended insulating purpose.

He debated trying to get up, but his body vetoed that decision before he could do more than move his legs toward the edge of the berth. Instead, he laid back and idly looked up at the ceiling. “Crankcase?”

“What.” Crankcase had rearranged himself to sit with his back to the berth and legs outstretched in front of him, arms folded across his chest. He’d tucked the blanket into a cushion between his helm and the berth edge. 

“What did I say about theological arguments with the Dark Lord?” Krok rolled his head to the side.

If Crankcase felt guilty -- and evidence pointed to the tough, grouchy Decepticon feeling it, indeed -- he didn’t show it at all. He didn’t, however, turn his head to meet his commanding officer’s recriminating gaze. “Not to have them,” he bit out grudgingly.

“Mmhmm.” He looked back at the ceiling. There were shadows dancing about up there. They looked like shadows to him, at least. Misfire made a small noise, and Crankcase watched the door warily. “You recall why I said that?”

Crankcase had bitten off more than he could chew, but he would slagging well choke on it before he admitted that. “ **Yes** ,” he grated out, sounding like he hated the universe and everything in it. “Sir.”

Just for that belated addition, he was going to make this a lesson. Lessons weren’t just for unit newbies and particularly stubborn mechs, after all. Krok reached out and patted the heap of insulation formerly known as Misfire. “I’ll talk to His Darkness later.”

“Not now?” Oh, that must have hurt to get out. Crankcase still wouldn’t look at him.

“Are you ready to apologize to His Dark Lordship yet?” 

Two rules of life aboard the W.A.P.

Rule One: don’t disobey Krok.

Rule Two: don’t anger the NeoPrimalist Dark Lord in the engine block. 

Bad Things happened when a mech broke those rules. But if a mech chose to break both those rules at once, expect no sympathy. Krok wasn’t a cruel mech, but he took his responsibilities seriously. 

Crankcase opened and closed his mouth, pinned between pride and Rules, and he was helpless before the lesson. Krok was a good teacher. Not a nice one, but an effective one.

The officer patted Misfire again, rolled over, and settled back into recharge. 

He slept like a newspark.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	34. Prompt 34

**Title:** Homeward Bound: The (Not So) Incredible Journey  
 **Warning:** Decepticons being Decepticons, and the Scavengers in particular being themselves. If you can’t take it, don’t read it.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Spinister, Fulcrum, Krok, Crankcase, Misfire.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Schrodingers-tailgate wanted to see more of this fic. Halloween prompts were timely.

**[* * * * *]**

_Vampire who's too old for all this shit._

**[* * * * *]**

This was not a diagnosis medical training had prepared Spinister for. An entire war hadn’t prepared him. From the befuddled expression he wore, even life aboard the W.A.P. hadn’t prepared him for a patient exhibiting symptoms of sheer cosmic bad luck.

That’s not to say that Spinister hadn’t examined Fulcrum expecting the usual array of unusual problems. Forced chassis alternation was par for the course for the K-Class, and the process could hardly be considered healthy. All sorts of things went wrong in the aftermath, or they _would_ , except the majority of K-Cons simply didn’t survive long enough to worry about side effects. Survivors, both medics and patients, tended to note minimum safe distance instead of solutions to the K-Class’ health problems. 

Spinister had been handed a patient chock-full of incompatibility issues and the barest slivers of information on how to treat the glitchy fragger. It made Fulcrum’s physicals interesting. Krok called them learning experiences. Spinister wasn’t sure what Krok was learning, but Grimlock had picked up a lot of bad language in Spinister’s accent, lately. 

The things Spinister lost his temper over were _lucky_ problems, however, no matter what Fulcrum complained. Trying to reattach combat-rated armor to a technician’s frametype was a pain in the aft, but it was a living person’s problem. Fulcrum might have to be dragged in by Krok for maintenance appointments, but he definitely wanted to stay alive. Spinister knew that. 

This? This wasn’t a lucky problem, and Spinister didn’t know the first thing about treating _luck_. This was beyond a possible side effect and into the realm of infinitely small probability. Fulcrum shouldn’t be alive enough for symptoms. He should be _dead_. K-Cons didn’t complain of tank-clicks. Tank-clicks meant death. Dead! Shuffled off the mortal coil and scattered all over the landscape for good measure!

Spinister didn’t know how to explain how improbable Fulcrum’s condition was, but he had a better grasp on the situation than anyone else crammed into the medibay with him right now. He gave it his best shot.

Crankcase dodged. “Watch it!”

The gun swung back toward Fulcrum, who clutched the edge of the medberth so hard his knuckles creaked. Fear-bright optics paled to an ill shade of pastel yellow as the K-Con stared down the barrel. Gathering charge swirled, hypnotic.

Fulcrum really didn’t want to be sitting here right now. He felt like a big fat target. “Spinister…the point’s to prevent me from exploding, not set me off…”

A firm hand smacked down on Spinister’s forearm just as the violence-prone medic fired. Nobody else flinched at the loud _THOOM_ , but Fulcrum squeaked, knees jerked up to his chest and shoulders hunched around his helm. 

He straightened out after a second. At this point, he was more startled by the noise than truly afraid. Burn marks pockmarked the medibay.

Misfire sniggered and Crankcase cracked half a grin as Fulcrum glared at Spinister, but Krok kept his hold until Spinister released the trigger. “Focus!” their commander barked. “Less weaponry, more medical jargon. That’s an order, Spinister!”

Spinister reluctantly holstered his sidearm. “Heightened volatility in current supplies are inducing trigger seizures as the fuel evaporates in his tanks,” he said, narrowing his optics at the weirdo K-Con he was somehow supposed to treat. “He should be dead. The glue I put in the trigger mechanism’s not enough to stop the process. A trigger seizure should be warning of imminent ignition, not a repetitive sensation.” Glancing at Krok, he shrugged. “Treatment’s gonna be one of those ‘medical firsts’ you keep telling me to document, Krok.”

Everyone stared at him. Misfire’s mouth moved as though sounding out the words one at a time. 

Krok gave every appearance of a disapproving scowl, face mask or not. “Too much medical jargon. Dial it back.” ‘Medical firsts’ he understood. He didn’t like those. They had a high failure rate. 

“Uh.” The befuddled look returned. Spinister ran on two settings: Low or Extra High. It was as true in the medibay as it was on the battlefield. Dumbing down his explanation for everyone else did nothing but dumb _him_ down.

Fulcrum jolted as a hand came down on his shoulder from behind. “Wait, no, I get it!” Misfire said, and Fulcrum all but teleported out from under his hand to go hide behind Krok. Misfire gave him a hurt look but kept talking. “We picked up those cubes in Havolk Station, remember? They boosted our supply pool. I didn’t think anything about it ‘cept we got the good end of the deal, but yeah, it kicked our ration grade up.”

Spinister’s confusion cleared. “That’d do it. Still don’t know how he’s alive, but a higher mix would certainly cause a reaction.”

Misfire tried a weak smile. “Reaction. Right.” Managing the unit’s energon was his responsibility, the one thing everybody trusted him not to screw up, and he’d screwed up. Frag, had he screwed up. He was only now realizing how _bad_ it could have been. A fluttery, queasy sensation flopped about in the depths of his tanks. Mistakes happened, but for some in the unit _*cough*_ explodey McSploderson the K-Coward _*cough*_ what Misfire measured into their ration was a life-or-death kind of deal, every meal a misjudgment away from being the last. 

Spinister shrugged the consequences off, clinical and uncaring, but Misfire was no doctor. He didn’t feel much like a Decepticon at the moment, either. A solid lump lodged in his throat as he stared at Fulcrum.

The bomb-mech didn’t look like he was quite following the conversation. He peered out from behind Krok with his optic ridges furrowed and chin jutted out as he figured out the connection between his tank-clicks and fuel evaporation. “Reaction? So…the clicking is, what, my systems adjusting to the new mix? That doesn’t sound too bad. I mean, I’m obviously not dead, so it **can’t** be too bad.” And maybe Fulcrum was being optimistic, but Spinister _did_ overreact a lot. He was sick of Krok pushing him into the medibay for stupid small problems like a _click-click-click_ in his tanks after he drank a cube. Little maintenance problems weren’t worth being shot at.

Spinister and Misfire gave him identical horrified looks. “ **Your** systems don’t adjust to higher grades,” Spinister said, almost offended. That wasn’t how it worked _at all_.

“It’s not a higher grade,” Misfire protested automatically, on the defense because _it wasn’t his fault_ except _it totally was_ and a part of him hoped Krok ripped his wings off for this. It’d be a decent penance for nearly blowing Fulcrum up. Misfire didn’t believe in Primus, not really, except for the teensy part of him that had listened to Flywheel’s preaching and set up shop as a believer sometime around when the W.A.P.’s engine block declared itself a Dark Lord, but that was a small, easily ignored part of himself, much like his common sense. More importantly, all Decepticons were fervent believers in tit-for-tat, and Misfire _owed_ the universe in general something for not killing Fulcrum.

“Then what’s going on?” Fulcrum asked. 

Krok held up a hand to cut Spinister off. “Enough. You,” he turned his disapproving scowl on Misfire, “explain. How can our ration grade be a higher mix but not a higher grade, and what does that mean in terms of Fulcrum?”

Wings wilting down, the jet twiddled his fingers together. Aw, scrap. Here came the Wrath of Krok. Also the harder to bear Fear of Fulcrum. “It’s not a higher grade because it’s still fine in the cube, but it’s more volatile once the cube’s open. Put it in the pinhead’s tank, and that lower evaporation point’s a real killer.” 

Krokian disapproval ramped up to full power, crushing the sad attempt at humor flatter than it’d already been. “ **Not now** , Misfire.”

Misfire gulped. No humor, not even as a coping mechanism. “Eh-heh, yeah. Um. Sorry. And, um, sorry,” he said in humbled voice to Fulcrum directly. “Didn’t catch it ‘til Spinny said, well.” He looked up and away, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. An apology didn’t make up for this. “It makes sense when you think about it. This mix evaporates a lot faster, and the fumes are a way higher grade once they condense in your intake, so the inside of your tank’s coated in a higher grade than you drank.” 

“That’ll make me explode!” Fulcrum yelped in terror, finally catching on. He made useless grabbing motions over his midriff, a foolish attempt at taking the fuel out before his killswitch registered it.

“Calm down,” Crankcase said, although observant crewmates might have noticed him stepping back out of the medibay to take shelter in the hall. “If you’re not dead yet, it’s probably not going to kill you.”

“He should be dead,” Spinister corrected him. “An active killswitch isn’t a benevolent medical condition, given the incredible odds against his survival at all. Continued exposure to the fumes increases the likelihood of death.” There, he’d finally put into words the absolute insanity of this diagnosis, odds beyond long odds. Spinister felt proud he’d thought to warn that every muted click in Fulcrum’s tank probably meant the killswitch was gradually wearing a path through whatever lucky piece of grit or glue had gotten in its way. Sooner or later, the trigger would flip all the way.

A terrified whimper brought his attention back to his patient. Spinister cocked his head at the shaking mech. “How do you feel?” 

Fulcrum had chalked the odd clicking in his tank up to to his overactive (and somewhat cowardly) imagination. How did he feel? Belated, teeth-rattling terror had him sinking to his knees as fear swamped him. “I’m going -- I’m going to -- d-die. I’m going to die.” The _unfairness_ of it made him wail, “All I did was take a cube off the stack!”

Spinister nodded philosophically. “Bad batch of ration grade. It happens.” A fair few of the K-Class’ medical files ended abruptly, with cause of death just a footnote on fuel blend. 

“It **happens**?!” Fulcrum shrieked.

“Well. Yeah.” Misfire looked embarrassed, as if he’d accidentally given Fulcrum exhaust hitches instead of a bad case of near-death. “It’s hard to maintain a level mix.” The K-Con stared at him, optics rounded in terror, and the embarrassment deepened. Real shame showed ugly and desperate in the way the corners of his mouth turned down unhappily. “C’mon, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t mean to.” Observant crewmates might have noticed him leaning toward Fulcrum, but he kept his distance. Just…not for the same reason as Crankcase. 

Fulcrum was scared enough right now.

It was more consideration than most expected from a Decepticon, much less this one, but Krok demanded that and more from his crew. He looked at the jet, glanced down at his panicking techhead, and sighed. “Nobody’s blaming you,” he said.

“I am!”

Krok nudged Fulcrum none-too-gently with a foot. “Nobody besides Fulcrum is blaming you.”

“Why aren’t you blaming him, too?!” It wasn’t fair that Misfire got away with trying to kill him _again!_

“Shut up,” Crankcase said. He came back into the room to glower at the K-Con for good measure. “He didn’t do it on purpose, and you know it. He’s not smart enough to kill you off by giving us better energon.” How he said it implied a decent cube would be a sufficient bribe if Misfire had actually planned it that way.

Which everyone in the room knew was a lie, but Fulcrum started hyperventilating anyway. He wasn’t known for his courage.

A lack worsened when Spinister bent down to lay a hand across his mouth. “Try not to circulate air too heavily. It’ll increase the evaporation rate.”

The lenses in Fulcrum’s optics cycled down into pinpricks. They fixed on Spinister as though willing him to fix this before exploding death. 

Unfortunately, Spinister was fresh out of solutions. Or rather, his processor was still stuck on the symptoms, and the bizarre lack of death on Fulcrum’s part. That was so weird.

Fortunately, Krok wasn’t half-bad at planning once he knew the situation. “We need to get that fuel out of him,” he said.

“I’ll go get my siphoning kit,” Misfire volunteered, happy he could do something, but a faint squeal of sheer, undiluted fear squeezed out from behind Spinister’s hand. Not the siphoning kit! Fulcrum had bad memories of Misfire and that kit! 

Misfire remembered that about two seconds too late, and a wince replaced his eager expression. “Not like that, loser. Fulcrum. But like that. Kind of like that. We gotta get it out of you, right? And, like, you probably don’t want to go through all,” he waved his hands around at tank-level in vague reminder of tank surgery without pain patches, “ **that** again. Do you?”

Fulcrum’s optic lenses dilated to wide, reflective disks. No. No, he didn’t. 

Krok nudged him again, studiously neutral. “It’s your choice. Siphoning or surgery?” 

A pathetic little whine answered him. Pure fear shone behind yellow glass, wide and bright and trembling as Fulcrum hugged himself in poor protection against what had to happen. Krok wasn’t going to give him a choice about draining his tank, but that choice didn’t matter. Fulcrum wanted to live too strongly not to do it, one way or another. Deciding on a method was just nitpicking over the details. 

Krok neither kind nor gentle, but he did try to honor the Decepticon ideal of bodily autonomy, ridiculous as that was applied to the K-Class. He could be patient. He waited. 

Eventually, Fulcrum ducked out from under Spinister’s hand and whispered, “Siphon.”

Misfire brightened, looked crestfallen, brightened a second time, then stuck somewhere between elated and upset. On the one hand: helping! On the other hand: soooooo not helping. Fulcrum looked sicker by the second.

“Go get your kit,” Krok ordered the jet. Their commander turned back to Spinister as Misfire darted out the door. “What can we do to stop this from happening again? We can’t unmix the supply pool.” Fulcrum was going to be pretty slagging hungry after Misfire drained his tanks, but the current blend would stay too rich for Fulcrum’s tanks until they diluted it with a weaker batch. It’d take another week to reach somewhere they could buy energon. Krok didn’t trust anything bought at the nearest ports. Their kind weren’t well-liked around here.

Starvation was preferable to explosion in the short term, but Krok needed a better answer and soon. 

Spinister’s masked face twisted into the peculiar look of a medic saying things he rightly shouldn’t have to say. “We’ll have to fuel him.”

Krok waited, but his patience was wasted. That seemed to be the extent of Spinister’s answer. 

“Oh, for the love of bolts…how?” Crankcase demanded. “ **How** do we fuel him? Shove a tube all the way through him or what?”

“We could do that,” Krok said, squinting as he pictured it. “Wouldn’t too hard to rig up a drip.”

Crankcase eyed Fulcrum with an alarming amount of interest. This sounded like a project. Crankcase didn’t like much, but he liked building things. “I have a couple straight struts I could fuse to his back.” It’d give the mech a backstrut for the first time in his life. Heh. “Hardest part will be attaching an arm to hold the cube steady.”

“No, the hardest part will be feeding the tube down through his tank and making a good seal at the bottom. Can you do that, Spinister?” Fulcrum made a noise Decepticons weren’t supposed to make even under torture. Krok spared him a look but otherwise ignored him, for which the rebuilt techie was grateful. Sometimes he forgot he was surrounded by combat-rated mechs used to jury-rigging survival out of whatever they had on hand.

But Spinister shook his head. “A tube would trip the killswitch.” Both officer and mechanic _hrmm_ ed in unison, but the medic had his own solution. “I didn’t mean tube-feeding. I meant he needs preprocessed fuel. From us,” he added when that got three blank stares. “Once it’s out of our primary tanks, most of the evaporation’s finished. He can safely drink it then.”

Krok took a moment to digest that. He blinked a few times. His mask made it difficult to tell what exactly that expression meant.

Crankcase, who looked revolted by default, managed to twist his face further. “You’re talking slag.”

“Nope.”

Fulcrum stared up at the medic, dearly wishing he dared open his mouth because his jaw should hang slack right now. Talk about a reversal of expectations. He had been bracing to have a tube shoved down _his_ throat, but -- 

Spinister suddenly looked thoughtful. “Do we have a really long straw?” Misfire bustled back into the room, and Spinister turned the thoughtful look on him. “Did you bring your mixer kit?”

“Uhhhhh. Yeah?” The jet looked between the medic and the others. Fulcrum slowly bowed his head, bringing his hands up to cover his face. Krok stared off into nothing, resigned to the lunacy of his crew. Crankcase looked as Crankcase as ever. “But I thought we were getting the energon outta him, not putting worse stuff in.” That had been the plan he’d heard last, anyway.

Spinister nodded. “Yup, but he needs a really long bendy straw, the lucky mech.”

“Lucky?” Fulcrum asked faintly from behind his hands.

“Dead people don’t need straws.”

Well, when he put it _that_ way.

“We could still let him die,” Crankcase muttered from the door.

“Stow it,” Krok ordered him, then held up a hand to cut off the question on Misfire’s lips. “Don’t ask why he needs it. Just don’t.” He didn’t want to talk about it. He was trying very hard not to think about what it would feel like.

Fulcrum bounced his face off his palms. Only repeated facepalming could express his level of exasperation. 

At least he was alive to be exasperated.

**[* * * * *]**


	35. Prompt 35

**Title:** Homeward Bound: The (Not So) Incredible Journey  
**Warning:** Decepticons being Decepticons, and the Scavengers in particular being themselves. If you can’t take it, don’t read it.  
**Rating:** PG  
**Continuity:** IDW  
**Characters:** Fulcrum, Misfire, Rewind.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Schrodingers-tailgate wanted to see more of this fic. Halloween prompts were timely.

**[* * * * *]**

_Vanishing hitchhiker_

**[* * * * *]**

“You guys aren’t anything like I expected,” the small Autobot said.

Fulcrum ignored him and took another sip out of Misfire’s altmode intake. The energon was bodyheat-warm and too-smooth, the tingle of energy muted from already running through a processing plant. It tasted like used energon, which it was, but it also tasted like Misfire: the strong tang of an engine running at its highest setting for too long, bubbles of unprocessed energon bursting across Fulcrum’s tongue, and the slight grit of poor internal hygiene. Misfire ran at full power all the time and didn’t clean himself adequately. 

Nothing Fulcrum didn’t already know. He drew back from the straw, making a face as he swallowed. Misfire gave him a quizzical look.

“You need to flush out your reservoirs more often. You taste like stale oil,” Fulcrum told him.

“See, I told you you’d get the hang of it! It’s just like what I siphon out of corpses,” Misfire said, completely undisturbed by _what_ he said. Fulcrum pulled another face. The Autobot’s visor widened, but Misfire kept talking. “Recycled fuel tastes like what you take it from, sometimes only a tiny bit, but still. It’s there. Do this long enough, and you’re guaranteed to get a taste for me!” 

Fulcrum’s left cheek twitched. His optics slid toward the Autobot, whose camera blinked red. Oh yeah, they were definitely being recorded by now. Misfire on a good day was some kind of circus sideshow, and here Fulcrum was drinking out of him like the bonus double feature. How could any archivist resist that?

Sparkly petrobunny goggles snapped down as a crude disguise, and Fulcrum frowned at the camera. “This had better not turn up on an entertainment channel somewhere,” he said, aiming for intimidating. Too bad he sounded more apprehensive than threatening. 

“Good idea,” the Autobot said, and Fulcrum sputtered indignantly. The camera kept rolling. If anything, the goggles made this that much more interesting. Instead of strange medical necessity, now the two Decepticons on guard duty seemed to be performers in a masquerade kink event. Fascinating! “Nothing like I expected,” the Autobot repeated in a murmur.

Fulcrum turned a cold shoulder and went back to single-mindedly drinking his ration out of Misfire. It wasn’t the best quality energon, but Misfire was actually a quieter donor than Crankcase. Fulcrum hadn’t thought that was physically possible, but it turned out Crankcase could out-complain _anyone_. That left Krok or Spinister, neither of whom Fulcrum was comfortable sticking a straw in, although if he had to choose he’d pick drinking from an officer over dinner with random gunfire. 

It was simpler to just go to Misfire. Misfire thought of siphoning as an everyday practical solution.

The babbling didn’t let up while Fulcrum drank. “Yeah, I didn’t start out able to tell all the tastes apart. You do this enough and your archives build up a separate index body by body until one day!” He beamed down at Fulcrum. “One day you take a swig and stop before you swallow because there’s something reeeeeally familiar about the burn in the back of your mouth, and Spinister sees you swishing it across your tongue so he asks what you’re doing, and it turns out this is the second corpse Krok’s had you siphon that died from a circuit speeder overdose.” He didn’t mention that the burn of circuit speeders tasted delicious, pleasant enough to overcome the taste of death, addictive enough that he’d started seeking those particular bodies out. Fulcrum probably already knew about that. Krok kept a close optic on him now while they were corpse-hunting, more than usual for such a nannybot commander. Misfire had to be sneaky getting a few sips in before Krok hauled him away from the drug-downed.

Fulcrum snorted. “All I taste is clogged filters.”

“Aw, c’mon, you can’t tell me I’m the only one. We all taste like that by now!” The Autobot blinked at him, wondering _very loudly_ how exactly he knew that, but Misfire just laughed. It wasn’t as though he went around licking the others or siphoning mouthfuls of their fuel while they recharged, but he knew. 

He’d have shrugged the minibot’s questioning look off, but Krok had impressed the need to stay still into him. With _words_. 

Krok genuinely wanted refueling to be no more difficult for Fulcrum than it had to be, but Misfire was the only one comfortable with Fulcrum drinking out of him. Fulcrum jittered like a loose bolt during takeoff when the jet made sudden moves. Necessity, not trust, brought the tech-turned-bomb to Misfire’s side. Their commander knew how easily that tentative connection could snap, and he’d informed Misfire of the consequences via detailed descriptions of the many and varied violent acts he’d perform if the jet scared Fulcrum off.

Hence Misfire was the most motionless guard in the history of the war. 

Fortunately, the odd Autobot hitchhiker they’d picked up was about as dangerous as a dead body. Sans any warheads left unexploded, of course, but what were the odds of that happening twice? “You know,” he said slowly, camera light still on, “most people would ask me what I was doing way out here.” Krok had plucked him out of the drifting hunk of charred metal that had once been some kind of vessel, looked him up and down, and decided he made a better hostage than Grimlock. Grimlock was pitiful in his own way, but he didn’t _look_ pitiful. This Autobot _looked_ pitiful. Pitiful hostages won pity points. Since the Autobots had apparently won the war, being heroic saviors was a better plan than hostage-takers.

That didn’t mean Krok had to care one whit about the Autobot they were saving. Holding hostage. Whichever. He’d assigned Misfire guard duty and left without a word spoken.

Misfire had spoken quite a lot of words, but Misfire didn’t do the listening side of conversations well. The Autobot hadn’t gotten a word in edgewise until Fulcrum warily poked his head into the room, too hungry to put off fueling anymore. After that, the thick, unspoken tension between the two Decepticons had smothered the Autobot’s attempts at starting a conversation. 

He tried once more. “You’re not curious why I need to get to the Lost Light?”

“Is that a port or a ship?” Misfire asked.

Fulcrum let go of the straw and licked his lips. “Strange name for a ship.”

And that derailed the story before it even got started. The little Autobot scoffed. “You’re aboard a ship called the Weak Anthropic Principle, and you think the Lost Light is a strange name?”

“Well, yeah.” 

“That’s what I was thinking…”

K-Con and siphoning specialist both stared at the Autobot, equally unable to see why their ship might be weird. At some point, a mech either accepted his life as the new normal or went about apologizing for his weirdness to everyone he met. Decepticons didn’t do apologies to Autobots. Obviously, they were the normal ones, here. 

Still giving him that puzzled look, Fulcrum took another sip from the straw.

The Autobot gave up. Mysteries were lost on people who lived with the inexplicable every day. 

He pointed urgently behind them. “Look out, it’s Overlord!”

Fulcrum whipped around, optics huge, but Misfire pumped his fist as he turned. “I won the bet with Crankcase!”

“What -- Overlord’s not -- “ The door remained closed, no rogue psycho killer Phase Sixer in sight. Fulcrum looked sidelong at Misfire. “What bet?”

“We bet we’d either run into Luna-1 or Overlord before we reached Cybertron.” Misfire grinned. “You want in?” Since Overlord wasn’t behind them after all.

As previously observed: at some point, Fulcrum had accepted his life as the new normal. “Y’know what, why not. Put me down for another run-in with the D.J.D.”

Misfire gave him a strange look. “That’s, er. You sure you want to win that?” That was more morbid than Fulcrum’s usual jokes.

“It’s more likely than either of your bets, and at least I’ll get some money out of -- hey, where’d he go?” Fulcrum glanced around the room. The Autobot failed to reappear. “Misfire!”

“Krok’s gonna **murder** us,” the jet yelped, and both Scavengers sprinted out the door to start searching.

They never found the Autobot.

**[* * * * *]**


	36. Prompt 36

**Title:** Homeward Bound: The (Not So) Incredible Journey  
 **Warning:** Decepticons being Decepticons, and the Scavengers in particular being themselves. If you can’t take it, don’t read it.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Spinister, Fulcrum, Krok, Crankcase, Misfire.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Schrodingers-tailgate wanted to see more of this fic. Halloween prompts were timely.

**[* * * * *]**

_I put a spell on you (and now you're mine)_

**[* * * * *]**

“Start again. From the beginning, this time.” Krok cradled his helm in both hands. Not for the first time, he missed the pain of his mangled face. It hadn’t felt good at the time, but there was nothing quite like actual physical damage to take his mind off the processor aches Misfire caused. Misfire’s absence, in this case. The jet caused as much trouble with his absence as his presence.

Fulcrum tapped his fingertips together and rebooted his vox box. “From the beginning? But **you** started this, Krok! Sir,” he amended immediately. Wise genericons did not skimp on the respect when accusing their commanding officer of being at fault. Blame shifted rapidly among Decepticons through blunt, often forceful means. Unconscious and/or dead mechs couldn’t deny their guilt, after all. He didn’t think this officer of any would beat him into scrap metal for pointing fingers, but old habits -- and survival instinct -- lingered.

Krok raised his head enough to glower overtop of his hands. Yes, thank you for the reminder that sending the two of them out on a ‘date’ had been _his_ brilliant idea. At the time, repairing the rift in trust between Fulcrum and Misfire had seemed worth the potential trouble. In retrospect, he should have known better.

He really, really should have known better. “I’m aware of my role in this,” he grated out. The words cost him pride, not only for admitting he’d screwed up but admitting it to the person who’d warned him the whole idea would end badly.

Fulcrum looked everywhere but at his CO, repressing the urge to smirk. The situation was serious, he knew that, but the part of him that remembered being a project manager felt more than a tad bit smug that Krok wasn’t infallible after all. He’d had his chin rubbed in his own inadequacies so much that it felt good to be right for once.

The smugness made him bold, in a cowardly way. He ventured a small, gloating, “I told you so.”

Krok’s hands folded finger by finger into tight fists. Any unlucky subordinate looking into his optics glimpsed the Pit, or at least an unpleasant prediction of the next few minutes. The traditional Decepticon passing of blame was about to commence.

Fulcrum flicked a smug little glance at Krok and saw his future. It wasn’t pretty. It was slitted, angry optics and clenched fists already target-locked on his stupid head. Regret locked Fulcrum’s joints as every system in him froze up. 

An elbow came down _hard_ on his helm. The K-Con staggered sideways, rattled. “Hey!” He crashed up against Spinister, who barely noticed.

Crankcase used his elbow like a control device, pushing Fulcrum’s head down. “Are you an idiot? You’re an idiot,” the mechanic hissed. “Shut up and let the not-idiots handle this.”

Fulcrum sputtered and tried to duck out from under the elbow on his head. What was this, a rescue? Come _on_ , Krok wasn’t _that_ mad. Crankcase was being a gaskethead!

A funny grinding noise came from Krok’s direction. No, not funny. Kind of alarming, actually. It sounded like a stuck t-cog, except Krok didn’t transform. It was a grinding growl more threat than mechanical error, and it reached past a mech’s armor to speak directly to vital internal parts, reminding them that they were, in fact, removable given sufficient reason to remove them. The three genericons standing in front of their officer suddenly remembered on the visceral level that they were Decepticon soldiers, better known as ‘grunts’ because all a CO had to do was grunt to replace them. 

Their current CO looked perilously close to grunting.

Sounded funny. Far less amusing in practice. Spinister, Crankcase, and Fulcrum all had unpleasant memories of being replaced.

They scrambled to attention.

Braced stiff, optics locked on a point above Krok’s head, Fulcrum felt excruciatingly aware that he was standing in front of an overprotective, entirely too possessive officer currently one soldier down, and here he was the bearer of bad news. A bearer of bad news without the common sense not to gloat he’d been right, at that. Krok might have been wrong, but he’d been wrong about losing a soldier. Losing soldiers was sort of Krok’s personal nightmare, Fulcrum remembered that now. Oops. Um.

His survival instincts were plenty strong, but sometimes the person they were attached to didn’t listen.

Krok brushed past Spinister, pushed Crankcase aside, and stuck his facemask in Fulcrum’s personal space. The K-Con’s systems locked up again, tanks cramping and joints frozen. “We are getting him back,” Krok snarled in his face. “I don’t care what happened, why it ended in arrest, or who gets in our way. We,” his optics turned to sear into Crankcase, “are getting,” then Spinister, “him,” and back to Fulcrum with enough force to rock the techie back from the hellish glow, “ **back**. Got that?” 

The unit gulped as one. “Yessir!”

**[* * * * *]**


	37. Prompt 37

**Title:** Homeward Bound: The (Not So) Incredible Journey  
 **Warning:** Decepticons being Decepticons, and the Scavengers in particular being themselves. If you can’t take it, don’t read it.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Spinister, Fulcrum, Krok, Crankcase, Misfire.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Schrodingers-tailgate wanted to see more of this fic. Halloween prompts were timely.

**[* * * * *]**

_”Spooky scary skeletons”_

**[* * * * *]**

Constancy sucked. In Misfire’s experience, Galactic outposts all sucked fun like a black hole but Constancy sucked more than usual. It was a bona fide funsuck.

The Galactic Council enforced neutrality on its own terms, which weren’t good ones for mechanical beings but generally led to decent people-watching if a mech followed the rules. Misfire had thought he knew the local laws, but taking Fulcrum out to a park for some quality pointing and laughing had led to being _arrested_. Which, okay, some people didn’t like being other people’s entertainment. He lived with Crankcase, so he understood that. But it seemed like overkill to put him on death row for making fun of passersby!

It was seriously unfair that Fulcrum hadn’t been arrested alongside him. Sure, Misfire had been having a lot more fun than the K-Con, and Fulcrum hadn’t wanted to be there in the first place, but protective custody, a free counseling voucher, and release was a far cry from death fragging row. The made-up charges they’d tacked onto Misfire’s arrest record were just the ridiculous topping on the whole crazy affair. 

Alright, no, the kidnapping one kind of made sense. Fulcrum _had_ protested leaving the ship. Krok had signed off on it, but Fulcrum hadn’t wanted to mingle among organics. 

Misfire rested the side of his helm against a fist and sighed, looking down into the can of plain energon he’d been supplied. Crankcase would probably like it. To be honest, Misfire preferred the ration-grade he mixed for the W.A.P. It had more flavor. It also had the faint aftertaste of dead bodies and salvage, but at least it made for interesting drinks. This stuff tasted dull. Boring. He hated boring. He liked to enjoy his food, not consume a cube like it was fuel for a machine. 

It was fairly typical of the Galactic Council to supply it to captured Cybertronians. Cybertron’s independence still rankled, especially now that the war was over. The Council’s protection racket was a harder sell without a mechanical race to scare organic worlds with. That, and Megatron’s complete and total distaste for organics had pretty much sunk Cybertron on the Galactic Council. 

Misfire grinned absentmindedly at the table as he turned the can around and around with his free hand. Yeah, it didn’t surprise him the prison gave him machine-fuel instead of decent energon. Any Cybertronian in the Council’s hands received the worst treatment their ‘free and fair’ slagheap rules allowed for. A death sentence for being a public nuisance wasn’t all that shocking in that light. Heh. It didn’t explain Fulcrum, but Fulcrum was fairly puny. The Peacekeepers had probably taken one look at the loser and deemed him a harmless victim of the mean ol’ warframe dragging him around Constancy.

Misfire’s grin disappeared. Harmless. Right. Harmless and K-Class didn’t quite compute, not even after all this time. Good thing the Peacekeepers hadn’t noticed that tiny little detail of Fulcrum’s anatomy, or the K-Con would be right here beside him at the table.

Considering Fulcrum’s history, Misfire could concede it was a good thing the Peacekeepers had let the bomb-mech go. Prison certainly wasn’t going to be a fond memory for Misfire, especially if it turned out to be his last. The date of his execution loomed ever-nearer. 

Somebody slid onto the seat opposite him, and Misfire looked up. Oh. One of the locals. What a weird-looking species. Well, not like Cybertronians had any room to talk; they turned into vehicles and objects, but at least the objects they turned into had moving parts. The natives of Constancy looked like gutted buildings, all girders and struts and missing exterior walls. A group of them standing together looked like a construction site in miniature. 

When the guy didn’t ignore him like a good prison tablemate would, Misfire knew the protocol. “Whaddya want?” he said, already suspicious. Nobody talked to the newbies unless they wanted something. He’d managed to annoy most of the predators into leaving him alone by talking nonstop for the first week. The rest had found out the hard way that he could aim punches just fine. 

His fist tightened around the can in preparation for reminding people the sexual coercion mark on his prison record meant nothing. Fragging Galactic Council and their fragging trumped-up charges.

“Heard you’re into Jenga,” the walking building grunted, and Misfire blinked.

“Um, yeah, I guess.” He frowned, confused. It was one of the few pastimes everybody aboard the W.A.P. could agree on. “How’d you know?” 

His question earned a scathing glare, which confused him further. “It’s on your rap sheet.”

“It is?” News to him. Wait, no, the Peacekeepers had confiscated the game he and Fulcrum had been playing in the park. That made sense, he supposed. “Oh, uh, okay. What, you want to play?” He glanced around, noting that everyone in the chowhall was either covertly watching or pretending he didn’t exist. This was probably the safest place to set up a game. Anything in the housing units would attract a crowd betting on the outcome, and he wasn’t getting stuck in the middle of a mob. “Got everything you need? We’ve got the table to ourselves.”

The native…blushed. “Wow. Right here?”

Misfire eyed the changing colors. It turned the critter’s bare structure an embarrassed brown hue that made no sense to him. What? What’d he say? “Don’t see why not?” he said, making it a question he didn’t know if he wanted an answer to.

“Kinky,” the guy breathed, and then --

\-- and then he climbed up onto the table, settling down on his stubby legs like a building dropping onto its foundations, and Misfire suddenly understood the public indecency charge. In fact, he understood a lot more about his arrest, and why Fulcrum had been let go, and this explained the frag out of his trial. The death sentence made much more sense, in retrospect.

Constancy sucked, but context was important.

**[* * * * *]**


	38. Prompt 38

**Title:** Homeward Bound: The (Not So) Incredible Journey  
 **Warning:** Decepticons being Decepticons, and the Scavengers in particular being themselves. If you can’t take it, don’t read it.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Spinister, Fulcrum, Krok, Crankcase, Misfire.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Schrodingers-tailgate wanted to see more of this fic. Halloween prompts were timely.

**[* * * * *]**

_”Hollow”_

**[* * * * *]**

Something was missing. Someone. 

Fulcrum knew who, but he didn’t want to admit it. He knew he was being an idiot, denying the obvious, but denial was a warm, comforting place. He didn’t just lived there, he _dwelled_ there. He’d set up a shop to sell small prepackaged tales to delude himself with. He made the lies and bought them in a stubborn cycle of refusal to acknowledge the truth.

Because if he acknowledged it, he’d have to do something about it, and that would take courage he didn’t have.

Fulcrum paced the length of the bridge as he thought in circles, hands clasped behind his back and bottom lip caught between his teeth. He wasn’t a hero. He was well aware of that fact. He was a K-Con without a speck of the K-Class’ notoriously suicidal bravado. He couldn’t even say he had a regular Decepticon’s bravery. In his opinion, most Decepticons’ courage was simple ignorance. Stupidity, in a lot of cases, but mostly ignorance. Genericons were kept in the dark about the front line they died on. They charged into battle under carefully uninformative orders, and they died without any clear understanding of the situation. Better education and accurate information would change blind courage into what Fulcrum considered common sense, and soldiers would desert in droves from both side of the battlefield.

Maybe that was his cowardice talking. Injured pride demanded he view his flaws as a misunderstanding, he supposed. The Galactic Peacekeepers had been quick enough to cast him in that light. Fulcrum had barely needed to say anything before the judge declared him a victim of a bully. The sexual coercion stuff tacked on had been a weird local thing, so far as he could tell.

Stopping at the front window, he watched the busy dock outside. Aliens, aliens everywhere, and not another Cybertronian in sight. It would be so easy to disappear into Outpost 113. The Galactic Council didn’t like Cybertronians, but he could work the innocent victim angle. Other Decepticons were getting out of the soldier thing, branching out into different jobs and becoming entrepreneurs. Some of them were using mockery of themselves as a career. Skullcruncher had a large following among other species. Fulcrum could sell his experience cyberforming to engineering firms, if nothing else.

He turned away from the window, chewing his lip. Running away was always easier than sticking it out. He could run away, leave the legal mess behind, leave the Scavengers behind, and who would blame him? The rest of the crew, sure, but Fulcrum didn’t feel a twinge when thinking about his old unit. He’d get over this one soon enough.

One lie, packaged and ready for sale. He could buy it. Here on Constancy, it was practically a bargain. 

Getting away had sounded wonderful when he was off planet, trapped in a tin can full of fighters. Fulcrum had crawled up into the dubious safety of the ceilings every other day just to settle his frayed nerves. A technician surrounded by warriors sounded like the start of a bad joke that ended with, “And they never found the body.”

Misfire had tried to _kill him_.

His feet took him back down the room, pacing out the nervous jitters. Fulcrum cupped his elbow in one hand, the other one going up to slip a knuckle into his mouth to nibble. Why couldn’t he decide? It seemed so cut and dry! Leave the W.A.P. and live to see another day. Stay, and the likelihood of death ratcheted up another notch. 

Was it sentimentality? Fulcrum couldn’t picture himself as attached to this crew. Krok was a good officer for a Decepticon, but that was damning with faint praise. He presided over a ship full of violent morons, to put it nicely: Spinister was a space case all by himself, Crankcase couldn’t smile to save a life, and Grimlock, well, a history as a dangerous Autobot berserker made him fit in quite well. Misfire might have been the only one to actively try to murder Fulcrum, but the others were a constant threat to his continued existence.

Sure, Krok had saved him from the D.J.D. and being roasted alive and a handful of other incidents along the way. Yes, Spinister had disarmed his payload and done everything possible to keep his killswitch from tripping. And Crankcase had peeled him out of that crater, and complained in chorus with him when the W.A.P. broke down, and it’d been nice to work with someone who knew which end of a wrench to hold…

Something popped, and Fulcrum flinched, taking his knuckle out of his mouth. He’d chewed a little too hard. All of this had him more anxious than he wanted to be, and okay, okay, he _might_ be attached to the Scavengers. Somewhat. 

He’d managed big projects before. He knew that plans didn’t survive the first major breakdown on the jobsite. Standing here on the bridge feeling helpless was another variation on that theme. The plan had fallen through, and he was denying all the facts. That worked in middle management, where everyone knew a bureaucrat’s job was to insist the plan should go forward despite all information to the contrary, but it didn’t work so well here and now.

He’d thought he could abandon them the second a better opportunity came along. Fulcrum stood in the middle of the bridge and reluctantly let that thought unravel. Leaving wasn’t an option. If he ran, Krok would follow. If he ran, Spinister wouldn’t understand why. If he ran, it’d be one more disappointment justifying Crankcase’s perpetual pessimism.

If he ran, Fulcrum would feel like scrap, and it wouldn’t go away. Running wouldn’t solve anything.

He wanted to run, but he wasn’t going to.

But if that was true, then he also had to acknowledge that he’d thought everyone would be better off with Misfire gone. It’s not that he’d _wanted_ Misfire to disappear, but -- no, he’d wanted Misfire to disappear. He’d wanted Misfire to go away the same way he’d wanted to run, and reality turned out to be different than fantasy. Now that what he wanted was within reach, he found he didn’t actually want it.

The entire cycle of lie and denial went down in flames. Shoulders hunched, Fulcrum sat down against the wall and felt Misfire’s absence ache in his spark. 

It reminded him of his payload. Fulcrum had wished _so hard_ for his payload to go away during the K-Class bootcamp. He’d sworn allegiance to any and every god out there if they would just make his warhead vanish, and what had happened? Nobody saved him. He dropped. He failed to explode. Then some deranged surgeon with a tendency to shoot rocks for looking at him funny took the damn thing out without Fulcrum even noticing.

He hadn’t even missed the warhead until he tried to kill the D.J.D. with it, but he’d been riding a wave of relief right up until he crashed into Clemency the second time. He’d felt its absence in the aftermath. There was a hole inside him, a hollow where death and danger should be. His frame felt an emptiness, a void intentionally created inside him to be filled by ordnance. He had been rebuilt around the payload. He’d grown so used to the terror of having an explosive cozied up to his spark chamber that he hadn’t realized part of it was actual dependence, an almost throbbing pain he’d woken up with back on Clemency. His body _needed_ the payload to balance right, function right, feel okay. How wretched was that? The K-Class had been built to spend their limited lifespans dependent on explosives.

There were cut-off connectors dangling useless inside him. Spinister had capped them all, of course, but Fulcrum’s body kept attempting to reconnect. It hurt. There was a great big hollow space inside him that he wanted desperately to keep empty, but at the same time, he felt compelled to fill.

Misfire had suggested Fulcrum install a minifridge. Spinister had actually seemed to consider it, but Fulcrum had yelled and thrown cans of engex at their heads until they changed the subject.

Anyway, the point was that Misfire had tried to kill Fulcrum, but Fulcrum missed him despite that. Although he honestly didn’t know if Misfire had really been trying to kill him. After months aboard the W.A.P. suffering the jet’s sense of humor and everyone else’s daily weirdness, he’d begun to think Misfire was more of a walking payload. Not too bright, not too dangerous on his own, and controlled by a firm hand on the trigger. The damage he did was the kind where someone dropped him into a situation, not one he intentionally walked in to cause. Given Krok’s strangehold on the troublemaker, Fulcrum had cautiously begun to relax. He hadn’t hidden up in the ceiling for weeks before they’d hit Constancy.

He’d gotten used to the dangerous, explosive people he lived with. Now that the worst loose warhead was gone, Fulcrum missed him.

He sighed and let his helm fall back against the wall. “Now what do I do?”

“Depends,” Krok said from the entrance to the bridge. “How brave do you feel?”

Fulcrum shot upright, wide optics taking in everything: the grappling hook, coils of tow line, Spinister had what looked like a sack of grenades, and was Crankcase holding the Matrix? “Um, I, Krok, you know I’m, well…” A complete and total coward.

Krok hiked the coils further up on his shoulder. “Ever heard of ‘fake it ‘til you make it’? Start faking.” He jerked his head. “Come on, I’ll fill you in on the way.”

Fulcrum stared after him. Denial had seemed like a safe place, but he might have to rethink that.

**[* * * * *]**


	39. Prompt 39

**Title:** Homeward Bound: The (Not So) Incredible Journey  
 **Warning:** Decepticons being Decepticons, and the Scavengers in particular being themselves. If you can’t take it, don’t read it.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Spinister, Fulcrum, Krok, Crankcase, Misfire.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Schrodingers-tailgate wanted to see more of this fic. Halloween prompts were timely.

**[* * * * *]**

_”Unnecessarily sexy costume of something you normally wouldn't associate with wearing a sexy version of”_

**[* * * * *]**

“Fulcrum!” Misfire started up out of his chair but checked himself even before the guards at the visiting room station moved. “You’re…awful shiny. And you’re wearing your mask.” Sitting back down slowly, he swept a look over the K-Con. Then he took a second look, this time starting at the feet and working his way upward.

The polish left him somewhere between unnerved and impressed. The mask he’d seen before -- _really_ brought out Fulcrum’s chin -- but repaired and shined up was new. It brought attention to areas of his crewmate Misfire hadn’t stared at before, and his gaze lingered. Noncombatant frametypes didn’t normally appeal to him, but Misfire had been surrounded by squishy organic creatures for two whole weeks. At this point he’d have ogled a lamppost if it transformed.

So he found himself appreciating Fulcrum’s slender build in more than a professional fellow-Decepticon way as light ran across smooth plating and slick, sleek paint. The K-Class rebuild had done good things to Fulcrum. Technicians were generally too wussy for rough use, but this particular techhead had managed to crawl out of the Pit still fighting. Or rather: running away, something that still amused Misfire. A funny coward. Heh heh heh.

A coward voluntarily walking into a place that probably gave him nightmares. Huh. Misfire shouldn’t be thinking what he was thinking right now. He was happy he hadn’t been forgotten, after all, which is what he’d thought up until today. Fulcrum was his first visitor in two weeks. He should say something welcoming, maybe encouraging.

Yet the only thing that came to mind to say was, “Awww, you got rid of the petrorabbit ears.” What the frag had happened since he’d been arrested? Gone for two weeks, and Crankcase gave the pinhead regulation-standard goggles. It wasn’t right.

Fulcrum walked right past the low table in order to hip-check him aside and clear space on the bench. “Be serious for once in your stupid life,” he said in a low voice as he sat down.

Misfire stared at him. “What in Flywheel’s name..?” He knew the rules for visitors. The guards had made him read the visitor room wall chart three times and take a short quiz before seating him. Prisoners and visitors weren’t allowed to be on the same side of the table unless they were given permission first, and they _definitely_ weren’t allowed to touch!

He looked frantically toward the guard station as Fulcrum leaned against him.. Oh, frag, Fulcrum was going to be kicked out and Misfire would be put back in his cell with a citation and --

The guards weren’t even watching them.

Okay. Okay, he could fix this. Misfire leaned back and casually crossed his arms across his cockpit. “Are you trying to get me in trouble?” he whispered, using his arm to hide how he poked Fulcrum in the side several times trying to shift him over. “No touching! It’s right there in the rules, so scoot before they stuff you in the cell beside me!”

Fulcrum flinched but didn’t move. In fact, he glued himself even closer. “Relax, we have an exemption.”

“We do?” Misfire was beginning to get the feeling he should have asked around out in the yard about visitors. 

“Yeah. Krok filed, well.” Fulcrum hesitated. “I have special visitor status per the Galactic Code 48.2a, page 92, paragraph H.”

Huh? “What status? What’d he file?”

After a minute of dithering, Fulcrum finally sighed and turned his hand upward. The palm projection showed his info. Misfire knew the chart by spark. Stay in a unit long enough, and a mech picked up everyone’s details. He peered at the chart, wondering what Fulcrum was trying to show him. It all looked the same to him.

With one glaring exception.

Misfire’s optics popped so round the frames creaked. “You have a **conjunx**?!”

Still wearing the resigned expression of the unit’s designated fallmech, Fulcrum reached over to grab Misfire’s hand, turn it upward, and toggle the palm switch. 

Misfire _wheezed_ in shock. “ **I** have a conjunx?!”

Fulcrum slid his hand over next to Misfire’s, and the appropriate lines merged as the projections overlapped, deepening the transparent hologram to a warm shade that glowed strong enough to glint off windows, goggle lenses, even Fulcrum’s polished plating. Some smartaft romantic in whatever bureaucratic department handled these registrations had designed the blanks to mark up perfectly for just that effect. 

Misfire’s voice went high and extremely thin, emerging a panicked squeak. “ **When did we get married?!** ” And why the frag didn’t he remember it?!

Fulcrum elbowed him hard, shrugging innocently at the guards as one glanced in their direction. “Shut up,” he sing-songed in the tone of nothing-is-wrong, no-need-to-watch-us, everything’s-juuuuuust-fine. “We’re just two Cybertronians who happen to swap fluids on a regular basis, and you might have some legal trouble right now, but I’m still entitled to visiting you since we need to swap fluids as one does as conjunx endura.” With the arm not digging a dent into Misfire’s side, he reached into his hip storage compartment and took out a straw to waggle at Misfire. “Right?”

“What? But -- “ But Fulcrum had only been drinking his processed energon because the W.A.P.’s ration-grade had been too rich. That problem had been fixed as soon as they touched down on Constancy.

“Shut u~p,” Fulcrum sang again.

Misfire lowered his voice to a whisper, too confused to stay quiet. “But we’re not -- “

“It’s technically all true.”

“But you drank out of everyone, not just -- “

“I’m not monogamous. So sue me.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” What was he even saying? “That makes no sense!” Thoughts occupied by the insanity of an unexpected conjunction, Misfire didn’t even think about it before he opened his altmode intake. The inhibitor claw between his wings kept him from transforming, but it didn’t stop his altmode parts from functioning. “They have to know that we don’t **have** to swap fluids all the time.”

Fulcrum unsnapped his mask and stuck the straw down Misfire’s intake, taking a sip for the sake of the watching guards. “Turns out the Galactic Council’s information about our cultural practices is pretty sketchy,” he muttered around the straw. “Krok faked up some forms for the ceremony that **definitely happened** , and Crankcase swore he was our witness, and Spinister wrote up a really technical explanation of my medical condition without mentioning the whole, y’know, K-Class part of it. Now the officials here think that conjunx endura are dependent on each other for fueling, and I’ll die if we can’t exchange fluids. Which is **totally normal** for our species,” he emphasized, peering up at Misfire as if he could burn the warning into the jet’s head. “We’re totally normal. This is normal. Got it? Normal. Because they won’t make an exception for a one-off if it’s just us two who’re like this. They got really upset about a victim being fluid-dependent on his assaulter.”

That effectively derailed Misfire. “I didn’t assault you!”

“You dragged me off the ship and made me play Jenga in public. Against my will.”

An uncomfortable cough interrupted the jet’s attempt at a defense. “Uh, yeah. But Krok -- “

“Don’t tell Krok this is his fault. Trust me, that doesn’t end well.” Fulcrum glanced around the room nervously, for once showing his cowardice. 

It shouldn’t have reassured Misfire, but seeing Fulcrum all polished up and confident was too weird. If Fulcrum was still a coward at spark, then the universe hadn’t started running backward overnight. Misfire could handle this if Fulcrum was still Fulcrum.

An oddly sexy Fulcrum embroiled in a conspiracy, which only made him sexier in an intensely Decepticon way. Lies and conspiracies and deceptions, mm- _mm_ , all the hallmarks of a good night out on the town. Was this a hot date or a set-up?

Misfire didn’t know what to think about this. It made him want to high-five Fulcrum, then maybe protect him from the fallout. Combat-frames were assigned to support staff for protection, right? Absolutely normal behavior for a genericon. Misfire put his arm around the techie snuggled against him, and Fulcrum relaxed into his side.

Absolutely normal.

“So what’s the plan?” he said out of the corner of his mouth. He could feel Fulcrum pulling something out from between their bodies, concealed from the guards by how they were pressed together.

“Breakout.”

“Awesome.”

“Yeah, I thought you’d like that.” Fulcrum looked up to smile slyly right before he snapped his facemask back on, pulling his goggles down at the same time, and Misfire’s fuel pump jumped in excitement. Time for _action_. “You ready?”

Misfire hugged him closer. “Best date **ever**.”

**[* * * * *]**


	40. Prompt 40

**Title:** Homeward Bound: The (Not So) Incredible Journey  
 **Warning:** Decepticons being Decepticons, and the Scavengers in particular being themselves. If you can’t take it, don’t read it.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Continuity:** IDW  
 **Characters:** Spinister, Fulcrum, Krok, Crankcase, Misfire.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Schrodingers-tailgate wanted to see more of this fic. Many thanks for funding the writing, and showing interest at all! ‘Twas fun to revisit the Scavengers and fit this fic into the gap canon left.

**[* * * * *]**

_”Local cryptid takes a bubblebath.”_

**[* * * * *]**

Krok had so many questions. So many.

Not the least of which was, “Why are you giving him another bath? He’s had two this week!”

Misfire shot his commander a dirty look. “It calms him down.”

The choice of responses to that answer bordered on infinite, but Krok went for the blatantly obvious. “Why do you care? Knock him out if he gets upset again.” That was the standard Decepticon remedy to an upset Autobot, barring actually shooting the fragger. It was the Scavengers’ default method of dealing with a bitey, grumpy Dynobot.

Or it had been, up until Constancy. Misfire scowled at Krok. “I’m not knocking him out.”

“He’s going to melt you down one of these days,” Krok warned.

“I’m not knocking him out,” Misfire repeated, then turned back to patting bubbles into fanciful shapes on top of the bath water. 

Grimlock stared at them dully, no longer upset but not responding to much of anything. Krok didn’t want to think about how that made him feel. The Dynobot had never been all there, but he’d been showing progress. He’d been able to recognize the Scavengers. He could say their names. If they were patient about teaching him, he could parrot whole phrases. Sometimes he even seemed to understand what he’d been taught.

Ever since Constancy, ever since Krok had failed to rescue Fulcrum and Misfire, ever since Grimlock had rampaged into the engine room and -- from what they could piece together in the aftermath, because Krok, Crankcase, and Spinister had been busy dying and Fulcrum and Misfire had been on the wrong end of a bunch of guns -- _bitten_ the engine block, things had gone downhill. Frag, they’d dropped like a stone. The Dark Lord had pulled off a dire miracle of the type that immediately made Grimlock some sort of urban legend on Constancy, but at the price of the Autobot’s remaining mind.

Grimlock had saved his crew. Krok knew that. He couldn’t _not_ acknowledge his responsibility for Grimlock’s current condition.

One of the Autobot’s hands slowly rose out of the pool, fingers reaching toward a bubble floating free from the mass Misfire had sculpted. The sphere reflected Krok in distorted purple and blue, rings of yellow wobbling around a broken silhouette in the doorway. Grimlock touched it with all the gentleness a titan like him could, but he had no coordination left. The clumsy contact popped the bubble, and Krok’s reflection disappeared. Grimlock kept looking at the empty space where it’d been as though he’d seen something important. 

A memory, perhaps, or a dream. Whatever it was, it was gone.

Chest tight around his spark, Krok stepped back out into the hall. “Don’t take too long with him. You’re on duty in an hour.”

Misfire said something at his back, probably an acknowledgement, but Krok strode away hurriedly, unable to face what he couldn’t save. His fist worked, and a compulsive clicking followed him down the hall like a reminder of what else he’d lost and could never get back.

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
